


The Girl with Blood Moon Eyes

by Becky_Blue_Eyes



Series: Becky's Rhaenys Fantasy AUs [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen Live, Anti Rhaegar Targaryen, Brienne of Tarth is the Best, Dark Fantasy, Dark Jon Snow, Dark Rhaenys Targaryen, Elia Martell Lives, Elia and Baelor have three children, F/F, F/M, Floris is Elia and Baelor's daughter, Gen, Here I go writing high fantasy again, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Jon is not a villain in this story, Lyanna Stark Lives, Lyanna is Ambitious, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prophecies Are A Crapshoot, Rhaenys is Renfri, Rhaenys is a bit feral but we love her, This story goes to dark places, anti lyanna stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:27:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24022861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becky_Blue_Eyes/pseuds/Becky_Blue_Eyes
Summary: “How am I to know? When I cut my finger, I bleed. That’s human, right? When I overeat, my stomach aches. When I’m happy, I laugh. When I’m upset, I swear. And when I hate someone, for stealing my whole life from me, I kill him.”—Renfri, The WitcherWhen Princess Rhaenys Targaryen was twelve years old, she was dragged kicking and screaming from the Red Keep and disappeared. Then four years later she returned, with glinting white teeth and a reputation bloodier than the demon roads she walked on and vengeance sworn on the man who brought her to the Doom.Or, a story about a girl who may or may not be a monster, depending on who you ask. Her family loves her anyway. Inspired by Renfri from The Witcher. Rhaenys Targaryen/Brienne of Tarth, Elia Martell/Baelor Hightower, Jaime Lannister/Lynesse Hightower, Rhaegar Targaryen/Lyanna Stark, Aegon Targaryen/Margaery Tyrell, dark!Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, etc. Not Rhaegar and Lyanna friendly.
Relationships: Arianne Martell/Viserys Targaryen, Baelor Hightower/Elia Martell, Brienne of Tarth/Rhaenys Targaryen, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Lynesse Hightower/Jaime Lannister, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Series: Becky's Rhaenys Fantasy AUs [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1886038
Comments: 142
Kudos: 128





	1. The Prodigal Princess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5/9/20: I edited the timeline so Rhaenys was 12 when she was kidnapped and spent 4 years in Essos. Mostly because I needed more time for stuff in her Essos backstory, but also because 4 years just seems? better? Idk lol

In the end, it is Lady Floris Hightower, Princess of Dorne, who is right about Princess Rhaenys’s survival. Jaime finds that fitting.

Clever little Floris, the only daughter of Elia Martell and Baelor Hightower, with her golden eyes as sly as the Fox she was named for and a mind twice as sharp—it is she who pushes her way into the small council and declares, “She’s in Slaver’s Bay! Stop sending your spies to the Free Cities and go get her before it’s too late!”

The small council sputters to a stop and Floris crosses her arms. She is only eleven but has all the commanding presence her grandparents used to keep Dorne and Oldtown to heel. And if they didn’t want the little Reacher princess telling them right from wrong, well they should’ve bolted the door. Her brother Crown Prince Aegon certainly didn’t do much to stop her on her march to the council chambers, he just adjusted her jaunty little Reacher hat and bid her good luck. Jaime would’ve asked him to join him, but his almost-nephew’s eyes were dark and solemn with grief. No, he couldn’t ask him of this, not when it involves Rhaenys.

Jaime moves to stand by Father and greets him quietly. Father raises his eyebrows at Jaime and Jaime motions at the map of Essos stretched over a board at the head of their table. There’s pins all over the Free Cities where Rhaegar’s spies have been searching for Rhaenys for the past four years, enough to stick a man to the board with enough left over for his shoes. Jaime himself feels rather foolish looking at it—is it really the cleverness of a child that’s beaten the efforts of a dozen grown men?

Jon Connington opens his mouth to scold her and most likely cast some sort of insult on her mother, but Jaime silences him with a look; he won’t let the likes of that pompous idiot insult his niece and his dear friend’s daughter. Connington can him Turncloak and Oathbreaker all he likes as well, as his bark is far greater than his pitiful sword’s bite.

Jaime turns away from the fool and sees how Rhaegar shies away from Floris’s gaze. He guesses that Rhaegar had forgotten all about his former wife’s daughter come to visit her cousin Margaery, and from the way she stands just like how Elia does when she’s …well, it must not be easy looking at his would-be Visenya. Jaime ran out of pity for Rhaegar long before this and he must stifle a smirk. Lynesse always reminds him not to rub his Lannister arrogance on their impressionable nieces and nephews, but it’s hard when Floris turns to him and says, “Uncle Jaime, it’s _obvious,_ isn’t it?”

“Explain, Lady Floris,” Father asks before Rhaegar can choke himself on trying to speak to her.

“Thank you, Lord Hand.” Floris heads to the board and points at Kings Landing. “We all know that the night when ironborn attacked Lannisport, Euron Greyjoy kidnapped my sister Princess Rhaenys.” She glances at the ground. “She saved me and Prince Aegon from him,” and everyone shifts in their seats. Jaime was in Casterly Rock when this happened; had he been at the children’s side he would’ve gutted that blackguard chin to cock. Instead Rhaenys locked Aegon and Floris in a closet and threw the key out a window. Then Greyjoy dragged her kicking and screaming to gods know where, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

Floris shakes herself. She continues, “And you’ve tracked his ship from Blackwater Bay to at least Myr where sailors saw him trading thralls for food. Lots and lots of food, which is why you think he went to Volantis since that’s far away. But that’s not true.”

“And why is that?” Rhaegar finally brings himself to speak.

“Because of what he said! You remember what he said!” Floris almost stomps her foot, but Jaime gives her a look and she calms herself. Instead she clenches her fists and narrows her eyes at the King of the Seven Kingdoms like he’s a simple-minded cowherd. “He said that he needed the fire in her blood to wake the Doom, and that only one head of a dragon would have to be enough if he couldn’t have Aegon and Aemon. Which means he sailed to Valyria to wake up the dragons that _you_ prophesized about!”

Rhaegar flinches and everyone holds their breath. Rhaegar doesn’t speak about his prophecies anymore, not after a man with cold blue hands came from the far north and handed him a blue-bloodied Dark Sister. Were it not for Elia revealing all of Rhaegar’s flights of fanciful madness during their marriage dissolution, Jaime wouldn’t have made any sense of what the cold-handed man was talking about, Others Night Kings and Bloodravens and a bleeding star come not on a birth but a death. What Jaime knows is that Rhaegar tore Westeros apart for a Visenya that, not only was born an Aemon, but was never needed at all because the terrible evil Rhaegar wanted to defeat was already defeated. All of it for nothing, and Rhaenys stolen away over echoes of that nothing; Jaime doesn’t know how Rhaegar can stand himself.

Floris turns back to the map and slaps her hand against the shattered Valyrian peninsula. “If Greyjoy’s ship had sunken in Valyria, we would know by now because there’s a bunch of pirates and slavers who constantly sail around it to go to Slaver’s Bay and Sothoryos, and they would’ve found bits of the wreckage. Uncle Oberyn says that Greyjoy has a very bad reputation all over Essos, so people would’ve been happy to talk about him dying. We haven’t heard of that, but we have heard that these cities,” and she points to Mantarys and Elyria in the Land of the Long Summer, “burned down because of something dreadful. Lord Varys said the rumors said it was like the Doom, right?” Varys nods and for once he is not giggling or smiling. “So, that means he,” and she shivers, “did what he wanted to do in Valyria, and now there’s dragons or something dragon-like happening near Valyria.”

Jaime shudders. Dragons returned to the world? Or the Doom on the move away from Valyria? Oh, Mad King Aerys would’ve loved that, he would’ve bid the dragons to come directly to Kings Landing and burn them all, in their houses and their beds and little babes screaming at their mother’s breast while burning monsters came through the window to tear at them—Father squeezes Jaime’s arm. Jaime inhales, then exhales, and counts all of the brooches and pins and other flashy bits of finery in the small council. And slowly the horrors of that night fade.

“Yes, but what does this have to do with Slaver’s Bay?”

“It’s a bit complicated, but I figured it out.” Floris traces paths from the Lands of the Long Summer towards Slaver’s Bay. “Greyjoy made it to Valyria and did something dreadful. Maybe his ship blew up after or he sailed away to further away in Essos, I don’t know. But I do know is that Rhaenys would’ve done anything to get away from him. And if she’s alive—which she is, I know it—she would’ve escaped, and probably ended up near Oros here, then gone up to Mantarys.”

Floris pauses, then asks in a quieter voice, “Have you heard of The Butcher?”

Varys smiles a terrible smile. “The Butcher of the Demon Roads, a terrible monster who tears men’s throats out with razor sharp teeth and cuts them to pieces to sell to the poor. Perhaps one of the more gruesome tales to come out of that region, although there have been worse.”

Floris is quiet. Jaime gently rests his hand on her shoulder. “What it is, Floris?”

“…the night Rhaenys was stolen, it wasn’t just Greyjoy, remember? There were three more men.” And she looks up at them with wide eyes full of troubled fear. “They were going to hurt me, and they had Aegon’s hands behind his back so he couldn’t stop them. But they were so busy with him that they didn’t notice Rhaenys behind them. She—first she stabbed them with the dagger Mother gave her for her nameday, and then when they kept fighting she bit out their throats and squished in their eyes and pushed them out the window. They landed in the moat so people said it was the spikes that did what Rhaenys did.”

Jaime could hear a pin drop. Darling Rhaenys, a savage butcher? No, that’s impossible, she was just twelve that night, that’s not…but what if? Jaime closes his eyes and breathes past the memory of Aerys’s blood cooling on his cloak, of having to wrap Elia in the torn remnants of the nursery curtains because her dress was ruined. Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch were mostly dead by way of half a hundred stab wounds when Jaime got to Elia and the children, and Jaime didn’t think much of it. Elia had a bloodied dagger in her fist, the same dagger she gave to Rhaenys years later. And if there were little bite marks on Clegane’s neck—well, Elia’s always had a small mouth, hasn’t she? And now their eyes were all pushed in, like how Elia said Clegane was going to do to her and Rhaenys and Aegon…

Rhaenys was three then. Before that night her eyes were dark as pitch just like Elia’s. But ever since then she’s had the loveliest dark red eyes. Red as rubies, red as Balerion’s flames, red as the blood moon Elia says she was born beneath, red as blood on Jaime’s cloak—

He’s going to be sick.

From the looks of it, so is everyone else; even Father is pale. Rhaegar whispers, “Are you saying my daughter is a monster?”

“I’m saying that my sister is alive.” Floris steels her spine and lifts her chin. “They say the Butcher’s gone down the demon roads all the way to at least Astapor, but maybe by now she’s in Yunkai or Meereen, who knows. What I do know is that Rhaenys is alive, and she’s there, and the Doom or dragons or maybe just some awful crazy people are going after her if she’s had to do—do all of that! So you need to go to Slaver’s Bay _now!”_

And she slams her hands down on the table loud enough that fool Mace Tyrell jumps in his seat. Rhaegar opens his mouth, then closes it. Father takes the lead and says, “This is all circumstantial evidence, Lady Floris.”

“It’s better than anything in the Free Cities, unless people really think she’s hiding out in the Black Walls of Volantis.” Floris sniffs.

Jaime cautions her, “Floris, even if this is all true…it’ll take near four moons to sail to Slaver’s Bay. She might not,” and how does he say that Rhaenys—that the Butcher—might’ve found her death somewhere in those dusty slaver cities?

Floris’s bottom lip trembles until she bites it. Then she shrugs with all the grace that Martell and Hightower women have. “Then we find a body for Mother to bury.”

And that is that.

* * *

Six moons later, Jaime stands with Lynesse on his arm and Floris nearly vibrating through the marble floor of the throne room. Lynesse fans herself, and Jaime wonders if the excitement and stress weights heavily on her belly; two more moons and they’ll finally have their first child. He rests his free hand on her stomach and she smiles up at him; he smiles in return and kisses her cheek. Jaime knows he would hope for a son to soothe Father’s succession anxiety and show the Westerlands that the White Lion will have a lion cub or whatever else nonsense. But in his heart of hearts he hopes for a girl, a lovely little girl with Lynesse’s hair and Mother’s eyes and a mind as sharp and sly as Floris is, as Rhaenys might be. He hopes for a girl to raise who will have a happier life than his long-lost princess.

Elia stands to his right with her own arm in Baelor’s, and Jaime marvels at the strength that keeps her shoulders straight. He was one of a very privileged few to see her grief in these long four years, of how she threw herself to the ground in the Sept of Oldtown and screamed at the gods for taking her firstborn from her. But now she stands tall, every inch the queen she ought to be, every inch the Lady of Oldtown, Princess of Dorne. Every inch his dear friend, more a sister than Cersei ever was.

Her two sons Daeron and Doryn whisper to each other about little boy matters, far too young to understand how serious today is. But they are only six, and hardly remember Rhaenys at all; Jaime himself can hardly remember his own mother and he lost her at around their age. Floris flutters between them, Elia, his own side and Aegon’s. Aegon is as calm as still water, but his hands tremble when he holds them with Floris.

Rhaella has made a rare appearance, as the dear Queen Mother has spent most of her retirement either on Dragonstone or in the rebuilt Summerhall. Viserys and his wife Arianne murmur to each other with pinched anxious faces. Jaime remembers how close both of them were to Rhaenys and how much they grieved her loss; they even named their only child Rhaena in her honor. Rhaena gurgles in Arianne’s arms and does her best to eat her mother’s ringlets. Daenerys is a pillar of serenity, as always, and Jaime can’t tell what she feels beneath her placid expression. In a way Jaime envies that, as he fears his face will be an open book once Rhaenys comes through those doors.

Rhaegar sits on the throne with Lyanna at his side and Jaime wonders why Lyanna looks so nervous. Is it because, now with Rhaenys back, Aemon is once again third in line to the throne? Does dear Alicent need to rethink her plans? Indeed, Aemon is sulking in a corner like every thirteen-year-old green brat ever to live mushed into one body. Jaime shoots him a glare and Aemon shoots him a glare in return before shuffling over and giving Aegon some support. Foolish boy…but then again Jaime was little better at his age. He remembers that Lyanna didn’t like Aegon and Rhaenys playing with Aemon too much since they were older and treated him too roughly, or that’s what she said. The servants still whisper of how Aemon is already a promising swordsman and so strong of will while Aegon likes to stay indoors and indulge the whims of his half-siblings and betrothed. Fools, all of them, and sheep as well. If Jaime remembers anything from Father’s harsh lessons after his departure from the Kingsguard, it’s that smallfolk are easily dazzled by spectacle and false chivalry. A true ruler’s might isn’t in how long his sword is, but how far his reach is over his lands. And Jaime hopes his almost-nephew will have a strong reach all over the Seven Kingdoms; Westeros will not survive another civil war.

Jaime hears the faintest commotion from beyond the throne room’s doors. Connington wrote three moons ago that he found Rhaenys butchering her way through Yunkai in search of anyone to do with Greyjoy and in search of revenge for a recently deceased friend. Rhaenys is hardly more than sixteen and already knows the horrible ways of men and monsters; Jaime mourns for the little girl who used to climb atop his shoulders and say that she was Rhaenys the first atop Balerion.

Elia shivers even with Baelor’s arm around her. Jaime reaches out and Elia holds his hand. He squeezes it and says, “It’s going to be alright.”

“I’ve waited four years,” she says. Tears bud in her eyes. “Four years, it seems so little compared to how long I’ve been alive, but I’ve lived a thousand years waiting for my little girl.”

Baelor kisses her temple. “You’ll have her in your arms again within the hour’s turn, my love. We will set things right again.”

The doors jerk, and Floris startles and squeaks, “She’s here!”

Jaime widens his eyes as Connington shoves his way through the door with his hand gripping hard on a thrashing form’s wrist. Her other wrist is in Ser Barristan’s, and behind them all Oberyn is shouting at Connington to let her go, she’s terrified, of course she doesn’t trust them when she hardly knows them, let her go this instant unless he wants to be fishing his teeth from Blackwater Bay—

The young woman throws herself out of their grasp with a wrenching pull that sends a quiet shiver down Jaime’s spine. She has short, curly dark brown hair with silver-gold streaks all in disarray around her face. Her skin is a golden olive like Floris’s, and even hunched over Jaime can tell that she’s as tall and slender as Aegon. But when she looks up at them with glinting white teeth bared in a snarl and smudges of blood on her delicate cheek and such wild terrified fury in her blood moon eyes…all Jaime can see is the little girl who helped defend her mother from a monster. Darling little Rhaenys finally come home.

Gods, she must think them all to be monsters. Does she even recognize them?

Elia holds her hands over her mouth. Rhaenys’s eyes dart between them all until they fix on Elia, and some of the frantic rage turns to confusion. Confusion, then desperate hope. “…Mama?”

“My little sunbeam,” she whispers. Elia holds out her hands. “Do you remember me?”

“Mama?!” Rhaenys draws herself up and holds her arms around herself. She looks painfully young, as young as Cersei’s little Myrcella. Elia steps forward once, twice, until it is Rhaenys throwing herself into her arms and sobbing.

They sink to the ground, clinging to each other and speaking over each other and Rhaenys—oh, she cries and Jaime can hear exhaustion in her voice. He cried the same way after he killed Aerys and Elia told him he was going home to Casterly Rock and Father told him how terrified he was that Aerys was going to burn him alive out of spite…Jaime knows that exhaustion, that relief, that lingering terror. His eyes burn and his throat chokes up and Lynesse herself wipes away tears. Most of them are, even Aemon is tearing up to see Aegon weeping and curling up by Rhaenys’s side. Jaime doesn’t know if he’s ever seen Rhaegar cry before, but he bends forward on the throne and sobs into his hands.

“You’re home!” Floris wraps herself around her sister. Her voice wobbles, but she is triumphant. “I knew you’d come back! I knew it! I found you and you’re home!”

Rhaenys looks up at Jaime and chokes out, “I remember you, I—I thought—I thought you’d all forgotten about me. I thought you knew that…that—” That she was a monster and not deserving of home.

“Never,” he swears, and she sags with relief.

* * *

Later, when Lynesse is asleep and the moon hangs full and yellow over the Blackwater Bay, Jaime finds Rhaenys staring out over a balcony. In the moonlight her eyes seem even more red, or maybe it’s from all the crying they’ve done today. Jaime bets he looks no better. “I remember this balcony,” she says without preamble. It’s still a shock to hear how her voice has changed, no longer a girl’s voice but a woman’s. “I used to count ships with Aegon and Floris, and we’d guess where they’d come from based on their sails.” She half smiles. “Floris usually got them right.”

“Floris the Fox,” Jaime murmurs, “ever the clever girl. She truly was the one to figure out where you’d been all this time.”

“…I’m guessing you’ve heard tales of the Butcher?” Jaime nods and she bites her lip. “I have all sorts of names. Butcher, Shrike, She-Demon, my favorite is the Wraith of Essaria. Essaria is some city that burned to the ground centuries ago, and I guess my fighting style is a lot like their warriors used to be.” Jaime raises his eyebrows and she explains, “Two swords when I can, my teeth if nothing else. They’re rather sharp, or so I’ve been told.” She grins and Jaime wonders how a girl can bite through a man’s throat so easily that she’s gained a name for it. For a fraction of a moment they glint blood red, but then Jaime blinks and they’re white again.

He pauses, then says carefully, “It must’ve been hard to fight on your own on the demon roads. Even in Westeros we call Mantarys a city of monsters.”

Rhaenys shivers. “You have no idea. I can hardly explain it all, about Mantarys, and Elyria, and Tolos, and all of those awful cities…that’s what Valyria left behind after the Doom, and it left behind a legacy of evil.” She turns towards him fully and hugs her arms around her middle. “Euron Greyjoy did something to me, I don’t remember what—I don’t remember a lot of what I used to know and it’s coming back to me in pieces so I hardly can put names and faces to memories. But I do remember that he tried to wake dragons from Valyria. I think he wanted dragons like Balerion and Meraxes and the Cobalt Queen, but…he made new kinds of dragons. And they’re an abomination.”

“How so?”

She looks down at the ground. “They have long thin necks, and they have six monstrous wings, and instead of fire they breath giant burning clouds of ash and brimstone that can bury entire towns with just one scream. It’s like the Doom got stuffed in a creature three sizes too small, and they’ve already destroyed what’s left of the Lands of the Long Summer.” She is quiet. Her blood moon eyes lock with Jaime’s. Then she whispers, “I killed one once. It buried me and Bellora and her family and the whole village under burning ash, and I only lived because I’m the monster that helped bring it to life. It…it was so hot, Jaime, they all burned to death and I felt how hot it was…” She covers her face and her shoulders shiver. Jaime’s heart plummets to his feet. What horrors has this darling girl lived through? He offers his hand and she lets him hug her. She comes up all the way to his chin now, no longer a little limpet climbing up his side. He hugs her tight and wishes the tight pain in her shoulders and back to banishes itself to hell. She looks up at him and says, “I kept its horn. And I’m going to bury that horn in Greyjoy’s heart until he bleeds ash.”

There is furious resolve bleeding in her eyes. Elia had the same resolve once when she stood before her former husband and demanded the rights of her children go unquestioned or she would do everything she could to bring down Rhaegar with her and burn every bridge on the way to the seven hells. Will Rhaenys burn bridges to kill Greyjoy? Jaime squeezes her tight. “I will gladly watch.”

And when Rhaenys smiles and burrows a bit against him until she’s comfortable, it’s just like hugging Floris, like hugging Elia, like hugging the child he and Lynesse will have. Jaime was once her favorite knight; he will not fail her again.

* * *

Adjusted Major Event Timeline after 283:

283:

-Rhaegar defeats Robert at the Battle of the Trident but goes missing for two moons to recover and go get Lyanna.

-Tywin assumes Rhaegar dead and sacks Kings Landing, commands Clegane and Lorch to apprehend the royal family but implies their deaths won’t be held against them. Clegane and Lorch go hogwild but are killed by Elia and Rhaenys.

-Elia and her children survive and, realizing the weakness of their position, negotiate a compromised alliance with Tywin: Tywin will be Hand again, Jaime freed from Kingsguard and Aerys’s death covered up by saying Clegane and Lorch went rogue, all as long as Elia and her children live and are championed as the true rulers of Westeros.

-Rhaegar returns with Lyanna and Aemon/Jon and announces his intention to set Elia aside and make Lyanna his true queen.

-Elia petitions the High Septon and the Most Devout for a dissolution trial and airs all of Rhaegar’s dirty laundry to bolster her own position as a helpless wife against a cruel husband and grasping mistress. A Great Council is called to affirm the throne’s line of succession after the dissolution.

-Rhaegar and Elia’s marriage is dissolved and Lyanna is made queen, but multiple decrees go in Elia’s favor: she retains control over her children’s education and households; her dowry is repaid twenty times over; and Aemon is declared a legitimized son rather than a trueborn son since he was born before the marriage dissolution.

-Most of all, the Iron Throne’s succession rules are firmly and permanently (at least for another hundred years until the next big scandal) set as Andal law: trueborn daughters go before legitimized children and uncles. Line of succession now is: Aegon, Rhaenys, Aemon, Viserys, Daenerys. If Lyanna has any more sons they go before Rhaenys and Aemon, and any daughters after Rhaenys but before Aemon.

-Rhaella survives Daenerys’s birth and retires to Dragonstone with her children in her care.

-Viserys betrothed to Arianne Martell.

-Jaime and Cersei have a major falling out when she tells him that he should’ve let Clegane and Lorch kill Elia and her children so that she could marry Rhaegar. They no longer love each other.

284:

-Elia remarries Baelor Hightower.

-Jaime is betrothed to Lynesse Hightower to marry when she is of age.

-Tywin offers Cersei’s hand to Stannis Baratheon but he marries Jeyne Swann who helped take care of Renly during the Siege of Storm’s End. Cersei instead marries a Lannister bannerman Leo Lefford.

285:

-Elia gives birth to Floris Hightower, much to Rhaegar’s distress and confusion.

-Lyanna miscarries a child.

287:

-Coldhands comes to Kings Landing and gives Dark Sister to Rhaegar. He tells him that on the night of the red comet over Kings Landing, Bloodraven defeated the Night King by driving Dark Sister into his heart. Then he spent 5 years hunting down and killing every last Other until the Long Night was banished forever, and had the sword returned to his descendant. Rhaegar has an emotional breakdown knowing that he tore Westeros apart for a prophecy that was never meant for him at all.

290:

-Lyanna miscarries another child and nearly dies from childbed fever. The maesters tell Rhaegar to not impregnate her again in fear for her life.

-Elia survives giving birth to twins Daeron and Doryn. Some rumors say that the Maiden and Mother in their righteous anger gave Lyanna’s fertility to Elia; the truth is that Lyanna gave birth too early to Aemon and Elia was given enough time to recover from her pregnancies with Baelor.

292:

-Rhaenys is kidnapped by Euron Greyjoy on the first night of the Greyjoy Rebellion. She kills three of his accomplices but their deaths are determined to have been caused by slain guards. Greyjoy plans to sacrifice her to awaken dragons from the Doom of Valyria.

-Rhaegar searches the Free Cities but cannot find Rhaenys or Greyjoy.

-The Greyjoy Rebellion is crushed; all male members of House Greyjoy except for Theon (and a missing Euron) are executed, and Theon and Asha are made wards of the king with Lord Harlaw as Theon's regent.

292:

-Viserys and Arianne marry; Viserys becomes Viserys Martell.

295:

-Aegon betrothed to Margaery Tyrell to marry when she is of age.

-Arianne gives birth to Rhaena Martell.

296:

-Floris deduces that Rhaenys is the Butcher of the Demon Roads and tells Rhaegar to search in Slaver’s Bay.

-Rhaenys is brought back to Westeros.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so begins a massively AU story! This won’t be as long as Come My Darling, Homeward Bound was since this is more of an AU experiment than an odyssey. I’m thinking maybe 10 chapters? This could change who knows I haven’t written the outline yet lol
> 
> I took inspiration from lostchildofthenewworld’s story A Shadowed Path for Jaime’s post-Kingsguard characterization and the Jaime/Lynesse pairing. He might be the dumbest Lannister, but he's also one of the more stable ones and a stable head is essential for Westeros.
> 
> Idk if it’s obvious but I am HERE for these Uncle Jaime feels ok? And since Elia is his best friend/sister-in-law/sister of the heart, he dotes upon her kids with Rhaegar and with Baelor. When Aegon becomes king Jaime probably won’t be his hand but he will definitely have his ear.
> 
> The Lyanna in this story is Alicent Hightower 2.0 because I got tired of reading about poor innocent sympathetic Lyanna and wanted her to revel in her ambitions. If Cersei was plotting as a young woman about being queen one day, why not Lyanna? If you have a problem with that, check your angry comments at the door cuz Miss Rona has encircled my city and I’ve been sheltering in place for weeks. Straight up ceebs (can’t be bothered) with your pro-Lyanna sentiments my dudes.


	2. Early Adjustments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that I changed Rhaenys’s time in Essos from three to four years. She’s still sixteen, but she was twelve when she was taken instead of thirteen.
> 
> TW for explicit descriptions of violence and implied sexual violence

Rhaenys has known fear in her life. The fear of a raper with a sword longer than hers; the fear of slavers dragging her friends by their hair to the flesh markets of Astapor; the fear of dragons bearing down and blanketing her in scalding ash and heat that melts the flesh from her bones and makes charcoal of those lonely bones; the fear she puts into men’s hearts with delight.

But now, as people she knows as if from a half-forgotten dream led by the woman her heart screams as Mother, bring her further into this castle that her body recognizes the hallways of but she herself does not—Rhaenys is _terrified._

Usually when Rhaenys is terrified, she either kills whoever is causing the terror or runs away to recollect herself. But the redhaired bastard with bruising hands and grating voice took all of her weapons. He even took Bellora’s necklace. And Rhaenys can’t run with Floris is holding her hand and babbling about things Rhaenys hardly understands. Floris. Her sister. Rhaenys has a sister. She remembers only fragments of her, but the fragments that remain are like the tapestries hanging in the pyramids of Meereen: beautiful and heart-rending. Tiny baby Floris crawling towards her and giggling. Bigger Floris and Aegon demanding a story which Rhaenys can’t remember. She shoving Floris and Aegon in a closet before—before _he_ —

She stops that train of thought. When she thinks about _him_ , that wicked Greyjoy bastard, the rage festering in her heart ignites like dragon fire and the Butcher makes her name. The men on the ship that dragged Rhaenys home must’ve told everyone about what kind of monster Rhaenys is. Did she not spend three months screaming at them in old Ghiscari as mangled as her leg, demanding they cross swords with her instead of being cowards? Yes, they must have told them. She has no shame of it. But does Floris know whose hand she’s holding? Rhaenys fears that if she were to allow the red haze to take over, she might crush Floris’s hand out of instinct, and the idea of hurting the girl who she desperately wishes to remember more of…it fills Rhaenys’s mouth with water and twists her insides into impossible knots.

Rhaenys counts the swords on the guards’ hips, the stilettos in the ladies’ hair, the windows and doors and archways. And all the while Mother commands the hall like a queen; is she the queen? The redhaired man called Rhaenys a princess when he dragged her screaming from the devastation she wrought upon Yunkai’s pleasure houses. And the silver-haired man on the high throne who wept to see her, that’s her father, isn’t it? It cannot be the younger man who hugged her, the man married to the woman with friendly eyes…their names are Viserys and Arianne, and once they all sat beneath blood orange trees in the Water Gardens and sang together. Rhaenys blinks tears of frustration from her eyes. She doesn’t know what blood oranges taste like, or where those Water Gardens are. What use is the memory when she has no knowledge, no connection?

They bring her to a chamber where a man in black robes and shiny chains of metal waits next to a—Rhaenys stops dead in her tracks and carefully pulls Floris closer to not jerk her arm. Is that a bed? Are they going to examine her like how they examine all the slaves in Yunkai? She’s heard the tales of how when slaves fought back, their fingernails would be pried back one by one until they stopped resisting. She did the same to the slavers who took Erzsebet away, will she have to do the same here? To Mother? No. Rhaenys whips her head around and counts bodies. Four guards, one maester, Mother, Floris, Aegon, her father, Viserys, Arianne, the man with golden armor that must be the Ser Jaime who always let her ride upon his shoulders even when she was ten, the man who guards Mother and looks a lot like Floris. There’s seven swords between them all, she can handle those odds. But there’s too many bodies. She glances at the younger man trailing close to Aegon who looks at her like he knows she’s going to bolt. He has grey eyes, large grey eyes—this is Aemon, her brother. She has two brothers she used to play with in the gardens. And Aemon shakes his head at her when she coils into herself. No battling, not with her family. She’ll have to throw herself out a window then; she hopes there’s not a spike-filled moat outside as that’s never fun.

She turns to Mother and says, “Please no, I don’t want to be examined. I swear I’m clean.” But then they look at her oddly, and Rhaenys curses her tongue. That felt too hideous to be the common tongue, she must’ve spoken in Mantarysi Valyrian but she can’t find the words to explain this. She sucks in a breath and tries again. “Please let me go.” It comes out in florid Astapori Valyrian, hardly any better!

Father steps closer and Rhaenys instinctively puts Floris behind her. Father stops. Then he holds up his hands and says back to her in High Valyrian, “We’re not going to hurt you, sweetling. Maester Arnett is only going to check if you’ve been injured—Lord Jon said that when he found you in Yunkai you had broken ribs and an injured leg.”

Sweetling; she remembers many people calling her that, and darling. Some of the panic softens. And it’s true that in her rampage she crossed swords against hired Unsullied’s spears and paid the price for it. She looks down at her leg and wonders if there will be scars from the spear that went clear through her thigh. Sometimes she does, sometimes she doesn’t. Valyrian steel usually leaves a mark and the Unsullied’s masters can afford such expensive weaponry.

Aegon’s voice is quiet, and every sound fills her with sharp bleeding nostalgia. “Only Mother and Father will be present, unless you wish for more privacy. Forgive us if we scared you.” And he half-smiles, and Rhaenys has a context for the half-smiles in her mind’s fragmented archives. “We just didn’t want to let you go, even for a little bit.”

Rhaenys reaches out and rests her hand on his hair. It’s softer than hers. The strands look like moonlight between her fingers. Then she pats his cheek. No longer baby soft, but still her little brother. She has a family again, and they want her, they don’t care about what she’s done. Rhaenys smiles so that she won’t cry. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The breathtaking woman from before, with moonlight hair all the way to her waist and violet eyes, she stands at the doorway with her beautiful younger miniature and the woman with Aemon’s handsome looks. The miniature lady calls out to them to return so that they may leave Rhaenys in peace. She tries to put names to them. The older woman is Grandmother, for certain. But the other two…Doryn? Daenerys? Lyanna? Lynesse? Rhaenys feels out of place to be surrounded by nobility with their fresh skin and silk clothes and full faces and bellies and not a single hint of a pox mark. Only the best dancers and bedslaves in Yunkai have the same look as them, and they don’t have the pinwheel flower branded over their heart or the teardrop tattooed onto their cheeks.

People file out, and Floris gives her one last hug before parting. Rhaenys feels oddly cold without her and she wraps her arms around her middle. She counts four cracked ribs; she taps a tempo against them so that the pain clears away the lonely cold. She asks Father, “And you promise this isn’t an examination? I’ve had one before, I’m clean I promise.”

“Examination?” Mother speaks in sweetly accented High Valyrian. “My love, what trials have you faced?” Rhaenys shrugs; she can’t find the words for that even in their shared language. Mother tells the maester in Westerosi, “Treat my daughter with the utmost care. If she asks you to stop, then stop.”

“Thank you,” and Rhaenys cheers when she finds that elusive Westerosi language.

The examination isn’t as brutal as Rhaenys feared it would be. Arnett asks permission whenever he touches her, and he doesn’t yank her arms or hair, or tie her down so that he can a go at subduing the infamous Butcher. As long as he doesn’t grab her wrists or lay hands upon her waist, she thinks she can handle it. He holds a candle to her eyes; he counts her teeth; he even measures her, which makes Rhaenys giggle in somewhat unnerved amusement. Why do they need to measure her? Is she not as tall as she ought to be?

He listens to her heartbeat through a listening horn and his brow furrows. Back when Neth was alive, he once did the same and said how her heart was like a Dothraki war drum. Ba-da-dum, ba-da-dum, ba-dum; ba-da-dum, ba-da-dum, ba-dum. Arnett says that he’s never heard such a beat before, and Rhaenys twists her lips. How lovely, what else was done to her in the black hell of Valyria?

When Arnett removes her tunic so that he may tend to her still-healing ribs, she hears Mother gasp and Father clench his fists. Ah. The silver scars along her back must be a shock, and the black…the black _sigil,_ on her stomach, must be a horror. Rhaenys hears a crow calling outside the window and wrath bubbles beneath her skin. She remembers only what she must from her voyage on the _Silence,_ and she remembers what they called Greyjoy. They called him the Crow’s Eye. The crow calls again. She’ll kill every crow in Westeros if she must.

“Rhaenys,” Mother breathes. She comes closer, and her hands hover over the black scar. A three headed dragon encircled by a crown. Or, that’s what Rhaenys remembers was the intent. In truth, the shapes are distorted by four years of growth, the shoddy knifework originally carved into her belly, and Rhaenys trying to claw it from her skin after the Doom came to bury her and Bellora and a thousand people alive. It looks more like some terrible spiderweb after it’s been torn from a tree.

Rhaenys licks her lips. She bites her lower one and tries to think of how to explain. “The ones on my back were from when I let my guard down.” She lowers her gaze. “After what—there was something done to me when I was taken. Now whenever I’m hurt I usually don’t scar unless it’s a bad wound.” Rhaenys pauses, then pulls down her breeches to check her thigh. She clicks her tongue. There’s a sliver of a silver scar there too, where three months ago she could see clear through the bone. “They don’t hurt, I promise.”

“And this?” Mother’s voice is lower, it crackles in her chest. The soft hairs on Rhaenys’s skin stand on end; she’s heard this kind of fury before, in the souls of mothers having to bury slaughtered children. Whenever she heard that fury, the Butcher would go shopping for fresh meat and deliver severed heads to those mothers. Oh, what Rhaenys would give to present _his_ head to her parents, to herself!

“It was carved with a knife by Euron Greyjoy.” Father looks ready to put his fist through a window. Her friends were the same way when she showed them what _he_ did to her. Oh, her friends, not one left in the world. What they would give to see this palace with red stone and gilded windows…all she can give them is vengeance, and it pales in comparison.

Mother brushes a hand over her forehead. “What troubles you, my darling?”

Rhaenys shrugs. “I was thinking of my friends who have since left this world. I wondered if they would have known what to think about,” she spreads her hands, “all of this.” Father asks if these friends are why Rhaenys did her best to burn Yunkai down when the redhaired man—his name is Ser Jon Connington, and he hates Mother, Rhaenys remembers this with a grimace—prevented the Unsullied from making a pincushion out of her. Rhaenys twist her lips. That is only a partial truth; the full truth is that yes, she wanted to free her friend from the slavers who overwhelmed them on the demon roads and carried Erzsebet away and left Rhaenys for dead. And when she was ready to rescue Erzsebet, she tried. She really did. She made herself up to be a humble seamstress, she lived by the Yunkai laws, she spoke their language—she let them think they were safe. She counted guard patrols, she hid knives and swords beneath the floorboards and the wall frescoes of her home. And Erzsebet died anyway, because of red fever. A mere sickness. Rhaenys never got to say goodbye. They threw her body in a pit and burned it!

Then the blood moon rose over that awful jaundiced city and gave her the strength to _slaughter._

She wanted to kill, to dig people’s eyes out their skulls and feed it to their headless throats because Erzsebet was the last of her friends, one out of _seven,_ and she died before Rhaenys could save her! Rhaenys will see entire cities in the ground to be her friends’ burial mounds! She lost count of how many she killed that day before Connington dragged her bleeding and screaming away from her carnage, but it wasn’t enough. It will never be enough! Not while _he_ lives! And Greyjoy best be counting his mercies that she hasn’t found him yet, because the Doom over Valyria will be _nothing_ compared to what she will do to him!

“Rhaenys?”

Rhaenys blinks and resurfaces from the red haze of her dreams. She looks down at her hands and her knuckles are white from how hard she clenches her fists. She relaxes them, finger by finger. Then she looks up. They look worried, and she doesn’t want them to be worried. She takes a moment to control her breaths, to clear the red from her vision and reacquaint herself with the living day. The bed beneath her; one window in the stone walls; four guards by the doors; Arnett; Mother; Father. She is herself again. Rhaenys coughs to clear her throat, then says, “I’m sorry. It’s…it’s so much now.” They understand, of course they do, but do they? Does even she? She shakes her head.

The examination finishes up, with all her bones either confirmed to be healed or given a nice healing ointment far too expensive to be found in the likes of Mantarys or even gilded Elyria. No fleas, no tics, no diseases; nothing more than what she simply is. The maester mutters to himself about her silver scars and heartbeat, and something about Targaryen blood, and Rhaenys wonders if her siblings are anything like her.

She prays they aren’t.

Mother leads her away to another room where a giant tub awaits with water that envelopes the room with the scent of rosemary and sage and mint. A bucket, soap and little stool wait alongside the bath; this is the Dornish style of bathing, she remembers. Like the Free Cities to keep the water clean, but not like the Westerosi fashion. No, she used to dunk Aegon and Aemon into the bath when they were fully dressed and covered in mud from the playing fields. It’s funny, she can recall the exact scent of the lemon castile soap in that splashing frantic bath, and the number of eyelashes on her brothers’ eyes, but she can’t recall their name days or their likes or their fears. It’s so funny she wants to kick over the bath and scream.

Mother licks her thumb and wipes it over Rhaenys’s cheek. “Did they even give you a washcloth on that ship? How dreadful.” She then hugs Rhaenys close. “I’m so sorry about what they did to you, my love. It’ll never happen again.” Rhaenys hugs her back. She remembers this, she remembers being hugged so often by Mother, even more than her siblings or Father or Grandmother. Even on the demon roads when Bellora would sing in her haunting voice and Miyya would scout for robbers to rob and Ilian would braid thorny thistles into crosswork knots, Rhaenys remembered her mother’s hugs. Her mother’s hugs, her mother’s scent, her mother’s dark brown eyes and gentle face—in the throne room when she first saw Mother, that’s how she knew she was safe.

Mother leaves her to her privacy. Rhaenys takes a long time just to scrub herself clean and luxuriate in the bath, in the concept of having an entire bath for herself. In having warm water and soap! Shaelys taught her how to make soap before Shaelys was killed by ravaging Dothraki, but finding the ingredients in the Lands of the Long Summer while the Doom made its way up the peninsula was a dangerous endeavor. She collects the white froth from the soap bubbles in her palms and looks closely at them. They gently pop against her skin, and when she sticks her tongue into them she laughs at herself for expecting them to taste like rosewater candy. She blows on some of the frothing bubbles. She has no memory of all of soap bubbles, and she wonders when they will return if it does at all.

Rhaenys closes her eyes and remembers her friends. Bellora; Shaelys; Miyya; Ilian; Neth; Xhen; Erzsebet. Seven men and women who cared for Rhaenys, who loved her despite her nature…and they’re gone. And only she will remember them. How can there be a world where she, the Butcher of the Demon Roads, outlives the lovely people who saved her from herself? How just is this, to sit in this frothing bath while their bones bleach beneath the sun halfway across the world.

She then remembers her family. Mother; Father; Floris; Aegon; Aemon; Daenerys?; Viserys; Arianne; Grandmother. Are there more? Jaime and Mother’s husband—what is his name, why can’t she make her mind work?!—inspire as much familial warmth in her heart as Father. And what about Lyanna, Aemon’s mother? That’s right…they have different mothers, three between the lot of them, what a mess…she remembers everything about her friends, and hardly anything about her family, about her home. Is her home this castle or Mantarys? The Lands of the Long Summer? The Doom? She can hardly breathe. Rhaenys wants to— _she wants to_ —she ducks her head beneath the water and screams; she pulls up for air, ducks, and screams again, over and over until her voice is raw and the feelings pass into the soap foam.

Rhaenys pulls herself out of the water once it’s cold enough to prickle gooseflesh on her body. She wraps herself in an overly plush towel and calls out for help. Mother returns and helps her dress in a linen chemise, a silk petticoat and a flowing orange robe. The robe wraps across her left to tie at the side; the loose sleeves only go to just beneath her elbow; and there’s no bodice or stays. She likes it. When she twirls the skirts lift like a hibiscus spinning in the rain. She used to gather hibiscuses in the Lands of the Longer Summer as they were one of the few plants that grew there, but it never rains there anymore. Rhaenys stops. It will never rain there again. And it’s her fault.

She hugs herself tightly. The air in Kings Landing is colder than Slaver’s Bay or the Lands of the Long Summer, and with the sea winds blowing through the windows she fears she may freeze over with salt. Mother wraps a shawl around her. “Are you cold? You’ve always been like me, little sun, we used to sit by the hearths even in springtime.”

“Tell me more,” Rhaenys begs. “Tell me all of it.” Mother smiles and the sight strikes pain into Rhaenys’s heart like dragon claws scoring across her back.

And Mother does. She takes Rhaenys to her rooms, calls her siblings and uncles and aunts and everyone else, and they just talk about what Rhaenys’s life used to be. Twelve years of it, of horseback riding through the kingswood and swimming in the Sunset Sea near Oldtown and running through the mazes of Sunspear’s shadow city. Twelve years of what sounds like paradise. Sometimes Rhaenys remembers the stories, like recovering a book from a library long thought lost. But mostly it’s brand new to her, with such an aching nostalgia that Rhaenys twists her hands into knots. Here she is, nestled against her Mother with Floris and Aegon pressed into her sides, and she doesn’t know what to think. She doesn’t know what she ought to know.

She wipes at her eyes. She’s lost everything to _him._ She’s lost it, she’ll never get it back, they’ll come to know the exact truth of her evil, they’ll want her to leave and she’s never know what to do…

A babe reaches out with chubby arms and babbles. Rhaenys blinks, and looks up at Arianne. Arianne smiles, “She was born after you were taken from us. We named her Rhaena.”

Rhaena. Arianne and Viserys named their daughter for her? Rhaenys sniffles. Then Arianne plops the babe into her lap, and Rhaenys is horrified because she doesn’t remember the last time she’s ever held a tiny child and Rhaena is so wiggly and near-boneless. She’ll drop her, surely! But then her arms move of their own accord and settle Rhaena against her chest, and Rhaena gives her a great gummy smile. Such a lovely babe, with bright lilac eyes and skin like her mother’s and curly brown hair. Rhaenys smiles. Rhaena cares not about survival, or slaughter, or the call of the Doom—she’s just a babe. A little baby. Rhaenys cuddles her close. She smells sweet like talcum powder, and gods, she’s so soft!

“Were it not for the eyes, she’d be the exact same as you when you were a babe,” Mother says. She rests her hand on Rhaenys’s cheek. “You were a smiler too, everyone was charmed and it was a nightmare getting anyone to keep you away from the orange tarts.” Rhaenys blushes and they all laugh. Rhaena eventually whines for her father and Rhaenys lets her cousin go.

She has a baby cousin, and she wasn’t supposed to remember her at all. She smiles brightly. If nothing else, she can do good by her.

Because it turns out she has two more brothers, the twins Daeron and Doryn who look just like their father. She doesn’t remember them at all, and they don’t remember her either. But they have so many questions for her about Essos, and why she left them, and she can’t answer because the common tongue slips from her grasp again and how is she supposed to explain what Greyjoy did to her when she won’t—she can’t—she mustn’t—

Floris catches her eye and she declares, “It’s nearly midnight! Mother, if we’re supposed to announce Rhaenys’s return tomorrow, we’ll need to sleep. I certainly must sleep, as everyone shall be begging me to tell them how I discovered my darling sister.”

Aegon rolls his eyes and tweaks Floris’s nose. “You ought to be some snooty Volantene contessa rather than a Lady of Oldtown, not even I match your arrogance and that’s my job.”

Floris gives him a little grin with her sly sharp eyes. “Think of it this way, it does you good to have some competition every now and then.”

Aegon tosses a pillow at her. “Brat.”

A flash of sitting beneath a great white tree with red leaves and pretending to be an evil witch, while Aegon and Floris argue over who ought to vanquish the witch, and then Rhaenys dumping a pail of water on their heads while they’re distracted—she’d called them brats, then. And it makes her feel a touch better, to know that she once was close enough with them to do that. Maybe she’ll be close again.

They all turn in for the night, save Rhaenys who goes to the balcony and Jaime follows her. Is he to be her guard, like he once was? Rhaenys wants to vomit out all of these half-baked memories and rearrange them into useful pieces. And when all she can remember about the balcony is a game she and her siblings would play, she wants to cry. She does cry, when she tells him about the Doom, about what she’s helped birth into the world, about how Bellora didn’t even have time to scream before there was ash down their throats and it burned—

Rhaenys tells him she’s going to kill Greyjoy and he stands by her. He stands by her! It’s the brightest bit of hope she’s had since she first saw Mother again, since she first met Bellora all the way in Mantarys. His arms are strong and warm around her, and Jaime hugs her like Mother does. She’s entirely safe, she knows this as certainly as she knows that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. “It’ll be alright,” he murmurs into her hair, and she believes him.

It will be alright. It has to be. She doesn’t know what she’ll do if it isn’t.

* * *

Try as she might, Rhaenys is not comfortable in the Red Keep. So, like she did in Yunkai, she counts people, she counts their faces. There are thirteen maids and pages assigned to her rooms and Floris’s rooms, as they will share until Father and Mother decide what to do with her. And twelve of those servants look at Rhaenys like—well, like she’s the Butcher. Rhaenys herself hardly cares, since four years of building a reputation comes with four years of people reacting to that reputation. But Floris always frowns when the frightened servants leave, and Rhaenys asks her, “What troubles you?”

“I think it’s my fault,” Floris says. “The only reason why we found out where you were is because of what you did as the Butcher. And someone on the small council must’ve told someone or was overheard talking about it…I’m sorry Rhae, I should’ve known this would happen—”

Rhaenys uses Floris as a pillow. “It would’ve come out eventually. Besides, Melly seems happy around me.” The thirteenth maid, a girl around Rhaenys’s age named Melly, treats her the same as they all treat Floris, with bright smiles and little jests. Rhaenys likes Melly, she wonders if she should buy her something. She’s never had a maid before, not that she can properly remember. But she knows that servants are not like chattel slaves, so surely she can give Melly something nice to show her appreciation? Rhaenys asks Floris and Floris says they ought to go to the market sometime.

Of course they’d have to bring people along. Probably Mother and Baelor, who has the brightest smiles Rhaenys judges to be genuine. And Aegon, she can’t forget Aegon, or Ser Jaime. Grandmother as well, if Grandmother is up to it; she spends most of her time resting as she is terribly sick from a disease no one knows the cure for. Maybe Daenerys—truth be told, Rhaenys doesn’t remember anything about Daenerys, or Aemon’s mother Lyanna, or Aegon’s betrothed Margaery. But in that vein, she remembers absolutely nothing about her uncles Oberyn or Doran, and she’s told she was close with them. She’ll just have to start over…Rhaenys feels the weight of their expectations on her back.

It helps that, even though she doesn’t remember them, her heart still holds feeling. She loves her uncles without reason, and she holds Daenerys in high esteem despite having nothing to base that esteem on, and she likes Margaery as much as her friends even without knowing why. Lyanna—Rhaenys doesn’t know what she feels about her other than growing ambivalence. It’s probably because she’s always with Father and Aemon, and Rhaenys discovers that she both adores and despises Father. Longing and rage wrapped up in a knotted wound about her stomach; she wonders what he did to deserve those feelings, then she thinks about the blended nature of her family, then makes an educated guess.

And Aemon…well, he avoids her. Rhaenys watches him anyway, watches how he acts with Aegon and Floris. And it’s bizarre to her, because he trails after Aegon like a shadow, so he must feel something protective, but they hardly speak to each other. And when they do—their voices out rival the bitter winds over the ocean. At least he is kind to Floris, who is kind to him in return.

Rhaenys dares to ask Aegon about it one day. Aegon is quiet. Then he says in an oddly flat voice, “The last four years have been not very happy. I accused him of some things and he accused me of others. But now you’re back, and it all will be set to right.” And he turns the conversation away.

She can imagine what they must have fought over. Because Rhaenys locked Aegon and Floris is a closet, not Aegon and Floris and Aemon. No, Aemon was sick that night…he had red spots…such a lucky twist of fate. Does Aemon think she blames him for it? Rhaenys scoffs to herself. If she blamed him for that, then why not blame the tides too for letting the _Silence_ sail away, and the wind too for being in their sails?

No, she only blames one person. And she will have _his_ head on her belt, one way or another. She’s had practice.

She has absolutely no practice with being a princess, however. Oh, she remembers how to curtsy, and sometimes the florid courtly horseshit she must say to whichever lord flows out her mouth on instinct. When Grandmother and Mother and Margaery all have their tea circles, Rhaenys remembers how to pour properly and how to eat properly and how to sit properly. But even her Dornish dresses feel too restricting after a full day, and there are so many people to count, and they all stare at her like she’s a freak, a monster. Not even when Father leads her down the halls with her on his arm do the stares stop. And Rhaenys knows she deserves the reputation, that the Butcher demands respect—but it goes on, and on, and Rhaenys can’t fight back without bringing shame to the people who spent so much gold and effort to bring her back.

She can’t fight, she can’t scream, she can’t put her fists through walls, she can’t find a way to let out all of this mangled feeling in her chest. And he’s still out there somewhere, and the Doom still scorches in Essos, and she’s here, and can do nothing, she feels _trapped,_ she can’t—she must—

Rhaenys asks Father if she’s allowed to spar and he gives her permission and she could scream with relief. Straw dummies don’t stare at her. Straw dummies don’t judge her. Straw dummies don’t blame her. And when she gets her swords back from Connington’s custody, straw dummies don’t resist her.

Over the years she’s collected a dozen swords through slaughter and sometimes even bartering. One is a curved scimitar from Great Moraq she took as spoils from the Red Ghost, who ravaged and killed twenty-five boys before she put her dagger into his belly and pulled up. Another one is a pair of two swords from lands beyond Yi Ti, one long and one short; when she bit to death an Astapori slaver she took it from his keeping. She unwraps them and points them all out to Aegon and Aemon in the training yard, although she keeps the nature of how she gained those swords to herself.

But one of them makes her brothers go stock still, and the servants gasp, and Connington immediately leaves to go get Father. Rhaenys tilts her head at the Valyrian steel bastard sword they all are transfixed by. Truth be told, it’s far too long for her to use with any kind of finesse and when she won it in a card game with some disgruntled sellsword mutineer, she mainly wanted it because of the ruby fixed to the pommel. It’s the same smoky red as her eyes, and in a bit of vanity Rhaenys wanted a pretty reminder. Lyanna joins them, out of breath, and whispers, “Where in the world did you find this?”

“On the demon road from Mantarys to Astapor. You can find a lot of swords there.” Rhaenys can feel the desperation rolling off them and she asks, “Does this sword have a history?”

Aemon turns to her and fixes her with his dark grey eyes; all the breath leaves her from how much he wants this sword, like a bit of rope to a drowning man. “This sword is Blackfyre. It’s an heirloom to House Targaryen lost centuries ago—wars were fought over Aegon the Conqueror’s sword.” He laughs an incredulous laugh and brushes his hair back from his face. “Gods, I never thought I’d ever see it in person. May I hold it?”

Rhaenys carefully hands him the sword so she doesn’t accidentally scrape it against the table. But when their hands lock on the pommel, Aegon interjects, “Father should be the one to wield it first. This is the sword of kings, and you know how he’ll feel about it.”

Aemon winces. “We’ll have five new ballads about this sword by supper,” and for the first time Rhaenys has seen them together, Aegon laughs and Aemon smiles. They set the sword back down and Aegon prods the sword with a finger. Aemon shakes his head. “And you said you won this in a card game?”

“In my defense, I am very good at gwent.”

Connington returns with Father and a host of other people, and they all shout and exclaim over the return of Blackfyre. Floris squeezes in and hands Rhaenys a package. Rhaenys opens it, and grins widely. Bellora’s necklace! She’s so glad Connington didn’t throw it overboard on the ship out of spite towards her refusal to cooperate with them. She’s so relieved over the necklace and answering Floris’s questions that she almost misses Lyanna’s face. But only almost.

Lyanna looks desolate when Father takes Blackfyre away for himself. And she lays her hand on Aemon’s shoulder when Father turns his back. Did she want Blackfyre for Aemon? He’s tall enough to use it. And Rhaenys is not blind to the way some courtiers treat Aegon better than Aemon. Rhaenys feels a bit of pity towards Lyanna, if not genuine sympathy. So then Rhaenys turns towards her brothers and asks, “Would you like to try these out? Truth be told I prefer these two,” and she picks out one short sword as long and thin as her forearm, and another almost twice the length as the first. These are the tools the Butcher used to carve her way down the demon roads, the rest are an indulgence. If her brothers can find a match with her other swords, then Rhaenys will be happy.

Aemon holds up a long curving bastard sword, nearly as curved as the scimitar. “Would you like to spar, sister?” He nods his head towards Aegon. “And you as well, brother.”

Aegon smiles his half-smile. “Margaery does say I need to get out of the small council more often.”

It feels so good to layer leather armor over her dress, to stretch out her arms over her head and feel the sun warming her back. She hasn’t crossed swords for pleasure in what feels like years. And in a terrible way, she wants to know the mettle of her brothers, in case she ever need to cross swords for survival.

Aegon is fourteen, or so Floris explained earlier when Rhaenys was desperate for knowledge, and Aemon is nearing fourteen as well, so they are still young. Terribly young. But Father must have trained them well, as they hold their swords with the ease that comes with years of practice. Aemon holds the curved bastard sword, and Aegon a long sword tapering to a thin point. The master at arms watches over them, as do Lyanna and Floris and Margaery. The master raises his hands, and the spar is on.

They are hesitant to strike against her purposefully, and Rhaenys understands. She’s wearing a skirt, she’s their sister gone for four years, she’s a woman—she herself would hesitate to spar with Floris. But Rhaenys is eager to spar, to hold up her arm and lay her short sword against her elbow pointing outwards. Her longer sword hangs at her waist and is a comforting weight. She charges forward. When Aemon comes to meet her she stabs at his sword arm before spinning back and slashing downwards. Aegon comes behind her and she drops the sword to her left hand and cuts up and back away from her. Then she pulls out the long sword and defends against Aemon’s blow.

She is quick. She never stays in one place for long, and when she strikes she coils her weight up from the balls of her feet through her body to her shoulder. Like a viper, like lightning, like an ash cloud billowing too quick to outrun. Slash, then weave. Weave, then stab. Stab, then kick. Oh, she kicks—when Aemon locks his sword against her own and uses his weight to try and force her to her knees, she yells and kicks in his chest. He flies backwards a few feet and lands hard in the dirt. Then she whirls around and elbows Aegon in the neck. He sputters and his sword arm is weak, she charges at him again this time with the long sword poised. He is unsteady on his feet, she can see where she needs to strike. She feints an attack to the left, right, twice to the left, and while his feet try to adjust themselves, she sweeps her leg out and undercuts him. He falls and she grins and she thrusts her sword down so that she may take off his arm and then stomp on his chest—

Aegon yells and Rhaenys freezes. She flubs her stab on purpose but her sword is long and it’s too late. She’s pinned his sleeve to the ground and blood wells where she’s cut his upper arm to the bone. Oh. Oh no. She drops her swords to the ground. She backs away. No. No. Aemon is by Aegon’s side and people are coming forward and Lyanna’s yelling for a maester and Aegon reaches out to her saying it’s alright it’s just an accident and Floris is looking at her with wide eyes and oh gods she’s afraid of Rhaenys, Rhaenys was going to kill her own brother, she’s a monster, she’s like _him_ —

Rhaenys runs away.

She doesn’t know where she runs, other than away.

She finds herself in a little alcove overlooking the sea. She sticks her face out the window and feels the salty air batter wet and wild against her face. The sea smells different here. The sun shines different. But she—no, she is the same awful person as before. Then a cat trills at her. She looks down to see a fat black cat with a sour little face and big golden eyes and a tiny voice. Rhaenys stares. “Balerion?” Balerion meows again and Rhaenys could weep. Her cat! She has a cat! And a brother too, and this cat better run before she cuts its arm off!

The man they call Varys finds her curled up in the alcove with Balerion kneading her leg. He is a fat bald man who reeks of perfume, and Rhaenys knows a eunuch when she smells one. She thought Westeros, not having slaves, wouldn’t have something equally as barbaric. But when he speaks, he speaks like a Pentoshi. “Your brother is fine, my princess. He just needs some stitches and his arm padded up for a moon and he’ll be right as rain. I dare say between Prince Aegon and prince Aemon they have a thousand sparring scars.”

Rhaenys looks away from him. “I was going to cut off his arm and stomp in his chest.” She swallows hard. “I was going to hurt him and I enjoyed it, just like every other man on the demon roads. But he’s not them, he’s my brother…what kind of person does that?”

“How long have you been in Westeros? A week? You’re doing better than I did when I first came here, a month after my arrival I stabbed a poor valet through the hand because he startled me when asking what herbs I wanted for my bath. I paid him a lord’s ransom for my mistake but afterwards he always knocked on a bit of wood before speaking to me.” Rhaenys snorts and he gives her a kind smile. “I spent all my life in the Free Cities, you see, and it was not an easy life.” He counts on his fingers. “I stole, I begged, I sold myself, I did what I needed to do to survive, and now I’m here. I like to think I’ve adjusted well, but inside there’s still that frightened little street urchin with only a knife to his name. And you, my princess, have had a far harder life than most.”

Rhaenys nods to herself. How easy it was to slip back into the Butcher’s skin, to revel in sword fighting until the pleasure of sparring became the pleasure of slaughter. She asks him, “Does it get any better?”

“Yes. It’ll take time, but it always does” Varys helps her to her feet. “Ask your lady mother, as she knows as much as we do about adjusting after a great change.” He pauses, then adds, “Yes, it’ll be good to seek out the sun’s advice. Do not let the moon rule over you.”

The moon. Rhaenys considers the moon as she hides in her bedroom with Balerion, too ashamed to seek out Mother or Floris or Father. Bellora used to say that she has blood moon eyes, and whenever a full moon rises—especially when a blood moon rises—her strength turns from unusual to terrible. Breaking wrists like twigs. Pulling out hair like weeds from sodden earth. She can bite a man’s fingers from his hands any day of the year, but beneath the moon she can bite through his chest clean to his heart. Rhaenys always dreams to fight _him_ beneath a blood moon and pull his head from his shoulders.

But her brothers? Her family? She curls into a ball. She’ll have her swords melted down, she’ll never hurt Aegon again, never…

Mother comes to her bedroom when the sun is long set. She settles by Rhaenys on her bed. Rhaenys opens her mouth to speak, then closes it, and hides her face in her hands. Mother runs a hand through her hair. “I remember when you had hair all the way to your waist, it tangled every day but you wouldn’t let us cut it because you wanted to match me.” Rhaenys looks at Mother’s hair, the same dark brown as hers but without the silver-gold streaks. And hers curls all the way down her back, while Rhaenys hacked hers off to her chin. Mother gently tugs on a loose ringlet, and it brings five more with it in a mass. “And it seems yours is just as tangled as ever. Shall I brush it?”

“Please,” and Rhaenys lets Mother brush her hair. She shivers from the comforting feeling. The last time someone brushed her hair, it was Bellora. They sat in her mother’s cottage, and Bellora braided Rhaenys’s hair into beautiful twists with little purple ribbons. Lover’s knots, Bellora called them, and Rhaenys wondered if she ought to tell her then and there how Bellora tied lover’s knots around Rhaenys’s heart. Then the Doom came, and Rhaenys could do nothing to stop it, and those lovely purple ribbons melted into Rhaenys’s hair. She cut it all off and buried it where she buried Bellora and a thousand people innocent of her crimes. And then she went about killing a dragon, as if that could make everything better.

Rhaenys squeezes her eyes shut and banishes the thoughts. She is not in Essos anymore, she’s safe. She’s safe, with Mother and her whole family, and nothing will hurt her here. Won’t it? She remembers flashes of fear and rage when she was younger; wasn’t she always safe here? Or is she the danger? Rhaenys is quiet. Balerion meows quietly and she pets him. She swallows, then she asks, “Mother…was I always like this?”

Mother keeps brushing her hair. “Always like what?”

“Like this,” and Rhaenys tugs up her skirts to show the scar on her thigh. “The eyes, the teeth, the scars, the—how I can bite a man’s fingers off and pull his arm out his socket. That’s not normal. The other monsters on the demon road couldn’t dream of being like this.”

Mother sets her brush aside and sighs. “When you were about three, you and I had a walk through the gardens. And at the bottom of a well by the day lilies, you heard the littlest meow. Somehow a kitten had gotten itself to the bottom of the well, and you wanted to save it.” Mother smiles, and her eyes are far away. “I told you to wait so I could fetch a page. But instead, you pulled a brick out of the well’s edge, and then two more, and three. I didn’t know what to say, other than whoever had built the well was surely a fool is a toddler could take it apart like playing blocks.” Rhaenys flickers a smile and Mother hugs her close. “But then you jumped down that well and my heart stopped. I thought you’d be killed instantly, and I’d have to bury you in the tiniest urn. But then…then you crawled out, with that kitten clutching to your dress. And you said you wanted to name him Balerion, so he could grow to the size of the Black Dread.”

Balerion meows from Rhaenys’s lap. Rhaenys blinks. “And I was three?”

“You’ve always been like this, my love. And I’ve always loved you for your strength, and your kindness, even when it leaves me shouting down a well that you’re in a world of trouble.” Mother kisses her hair. “You’re not evil, Rhaenys, you simply are what you’ve needed to be to survive. And Aegon doesn’t blame you for the accident today, nor do I.” Rhaenys flinches and Mother sighs. “He’ll tell you himself tomorrow when we all go riding in the kingswood.” Mother finishes brushing Rhaenys’s hair, then kisses her forehead. “Dream of spring, my darling. Spring flowers and spring water, I think winter shall depart soon now that our little sun has returned to us.”

And that night, with Balerion curled against her legs and Rhaenys in a bed as soft as twenty beds put together, she dreams. Rhaenys dreams of the Doom spreading all over Essos to turn the rivers red with ash and blood, and herself at the center with a crown of gold on her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have Rhaenys’s POV! It starts from when she was reunited with her family then moved ahead. She has spent four years of her life—the only years of her life that she consistently remembers—in a violent hellscape being violent. It’s affected her deeply and her journey in this story involves how to separate “necessary” violence (self-defense and defense of others) from “unnecessary violence” (bloodlust and going feral in Yunkai)
> 
> She’s suffering from some fantastical amnesia, where it’s like trying to put together a giant jigsaw puzzle and some sections are already finished but you’re still missing 90% of it and you think someone switched out some of the puzzle pieces with a different box’s set. So she remembers vivid details about random memories, but neither the context of those memories nor knowledge of the people in them. Whatever Greyjoy did it her—and we’ll get more into that later in the story—it was pretty psychologically devastating. Rhaenys has PTSD in this story as well (I updated the tags) and there’s gonna be moments where she gets triggered by things done to her and things she’s done. But as the next chapters are multi character POV, whether or not those characters recognize those triggers is a different question.
> 
> I’m taking bits and pieces from Renfri’s backstory as I go along, and Rhaenys’s seven friends (all of them died, ouch) is a callback to Renfri’s seven gnome friends (who also all died, ouch). Renfri herself is a dark retelling of the Snow-White archetype, which I really want to do with Rhaenys one day, maybe in a oneshot story.
> 
> Idk if all the chapters will be around this length since it got away from me here (this is the only Rhaenys POV we’ll have for a while and I got in deep exploring her view on her return) but hopefully they will? And hopefully I’ll update more often? I’m starting online classes for graduate school soon and I have to move out of my apt to move back to the states and I go back to work in June sooooooo we’ll see.


	3. Matters of a Personal Nature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not dead! I’ve moved back from Japan to the US (I swear I had a good reason for this terrible decision, I was supposed to start grad school in August. But the program’s delayed cuz of the pandemic and I’ve got no job lined up since I refuse to be a substitute teacher during these awful times sooooo I already regret it lmao) and now that I’m in quarantine and don’t plan to leave my house until sometime next year, I have time to actually write again! For all my US readers…stay inside as long as you can. People are contagious and we’ve already lost 138,000+.

**Warning: violence and gore in this chapter! I will mark it where it starts and ends so you can skip it**

\--

Baelor sets the letter down. This one from Oldtown the same as the one from Sunspear, and the other two from Pentos and Myr. Red tides full of inedible red algae bloom in the warmer shallows of oceans and river deltas, even in freshwater lakes. Fish choke themselves to death on the false food and whoever eats the shellfish buried beneath the red tides soon die from the toxins within. Father in the Hightower wrote Baelor a rambling screed with Malora filling in the blanks, filled with hypotheses that the seas are warming because of a imbalance in the world’s nature. Perhaps when Bloodraven all those years ago killed the monster of Rhaegar’s foolish prophecies, Rhaegar wept and moaned so hard that the gods saw it fit to bring a new disaster for him to fix. Baelor snorts at Malora’s theory; even the gods must be exhausted by his wife’s former husband.

The letter from Lys is worrying as well. Sailors fleeing westward swear on their souls that the Black Cliffs overlooking Slaver’s Bay glow red hot from massive underground fires. Baelor guesses that it’s the coal seams causing this, and the igniting spark from whatever has propelled the Doom down the Valyrian peninsula. He casts a pensive gaze over the rest of the letters arriving at the Red Keep for him and Elia. Elia’s estranged good sister Mellario is in Norvos, a slave city. When Slaver’s Bay goes the way of Mantarys and Elyria, what will become of the Free Cities?

He sighs and pushes the letters away. A part of him wants to ask Rhaenys what exactly is happening in far Essos; a part of him wants to wipe the last four years from her mind, just as all the years before were wiped. She is so tall now, and her voice so deep and raw, and there is so much feral wrath coiled in her heart—what remains of the sweet little girl who stole bits of his heart just as Elia and Aegon did?

Baelor shakes his head. Then he leaves the little study allotted to him in their apartments in the Red Keep and seeks out Elia. Whenever he is overwhelmed, she grounds him. A marvelous feat, since Baelor still wonders if her feet ever do touch the ground, Maiden and Mother made flesh that she is.

He finds her in the gardens. She lounges on a chaise with her long legs stretched out to let the sun bronze them. He sits by her and kisses her hand, and Elia smiles up at him. Even after years of friendship, courtship and marriage, Baelor is struck dumb by how beautiful her smile is, how her very soul illuminates her eyes from within. What he would do to protect that smile. Across the garden patio Oberyn has Daeron and Doryn under his arms and does his best to juggle them. Rhaenys and Floris giggle at their feet and at Oberyn’s wild tales of Essos and how exactly he met Nymeria’s mother. Some of the tension in the back of Baelor’s eyes, weary and wary and ever present, lessens to see them all so happy. Daeron shrieks with laughter when Oberyn tosses him up, and Doryn quickly follows. Then they land and sit with a little cloud of dust while Floris teases them for scaring all the birds away and Rhaenys—she just laughs, and her laugh is the same as it was four years ago. Oberyn slings his arm around Rhaenys’s shoulders and she doesn’t flinch away. Instead she leans against his side and demands another story.

Elia watches them all with eyes bright and glittering. “It’s almost like she never left,” she whispers. “Were it not for Floris—our clever girl has saved our family.”

Baelor squeezes her hand. “I’d expect nothing less from your daughter.”

She turns to him and leans up to brush her lips against his cheek. “Silver-tongued man.” Baelor whispers in her ear what exactly his silver tongue can do and Elia giggles into his neck like they’re a green boy and a maiden hiding out from their parents. If only that had been true, and Baelor could’ve saved Elia from Rhaegar, could’ve counted Rhaenys and Aegon by blood instead of just by heart, could’ve prevented Euron Greyjoy from ripping their family apart…but if the gods granted wishes they’d owe him near a hundred. Baelor must content himself with holding Elia close in these gardens, and listening to their children laugh, and watching the sun paint marvelous patterns over their skin.

Elia sighs and he raises his eyebrows at her. She hesitates, then says, “I’m worried for Rhae.”

“She needs time and we shall give her time.”

“Not just merely time for adjustment and recovery.” Baelor shifts them around until they lie side by side and tugs on the woven sun screen around the chaise. When they are partly shielded from Oberyn’s prying eyes and Floris’s ears, Elia admits, “It’s her strength. By now all of Kings Landing must know that Rhae and Aegon had a sparring accident, but I’ve muffled the truth. No one needs to know about how her sword embedded a foot into the ground, or how she kicked Aemon a full five feet away and cracked three of his ribs.”

Baelor startles. For all his antipathy towards Rhaegar and Lyanna, he doesn’t have anything against Aemon other than the obvious politics. Before Rhaenys’s kidnapping he and Aegon were thick and thieves and it’s always better to have a Bloodraven at your back than a Bittersteel. Now with Rhaenys returned hopefully they can repair the cold tension between them before Baelor must involve himself. And to crack even one rib is much for a green boy, let alone three. “Is the boy alright?”

“He and Aegon are right as rain and don’t think much of it other than she deserves her reputation. Rhaenys apologized to them both before their morning lessons and I didn’t see any resentment or anger on their faces. But the look on _her_ face when the maesters tended to Aemon…” Elia shakes her head. “She’s always hated Rhaenys, I know it. Ever since she was a little girl and would get into accidents.”

“Accidents like the training session?”

“Not quite. Boys can be boys, but girls can never be without being seen as cruel as Visenya. As mad as Aelora.” Elia traces patterns on Baelor’s arm. “Sometimes she would get angry, or she would be too excited, and things would break. I always had them replaced and paid off the maids and pages so they wouldn’t go crying to unfriendly ears. And Rhae herself—oh, she’s a good girl, I swear it. When she was six she and Aemon had a little fight because he wanted to play Aegon the Conqueror and she didn’t want to be one of his queens but rather the Queen Who Never Was. They argued about it and eventually they agreed to play a different game, but Lyanna overheard them. That little bitch called our girl a selfish brat because Rhae had the audacity to not want to be Queen Visenya, and said she couldn’t play with Aemon anymore. So Rhae got angry, snuck into her chambers and smashed Lyanna’s she-wolf.”

Baelor raises his brows again and Elia explains, “Stark women have had that heirloom since time immemorial. According to Ashara anyway, from what she learned from Ned. Either way it was Lyanna’s possession that she cherished and Rhae smashed it in a fit of anger. When I found her, Rhae had torn her hands to shreds trying to put back the pieces together. And she cried how she was sorry and didn’t mean it, and wanted to make it all better.”

Baelor’s heart sinks. “Poor child.” And he understands Elia’s fears more in detail. If Rhaenys had been Aegon, it would’ve been tolerated. Oh, Rhaegar would’ve been cross and tongues would wag about the heir of the first queen hating the second queen…but they would’ve forgiven it. Baelor himself broke a glass figurine of his second stepmother’s out of teenage resentment and that was forgiven as him being a boy. But Rhaenys, sweet Rhaenys with her red eyes—they’d never forgive a first wife’s Dornish princess’s anger. Unsavory rumors would spread. And would it matter that she regretted it and bled over trying to fix her mistake? Baelor hugs Elia close. “Did her hands heal?”

“She’s always healed quicker and easier than her siblings. She had little scars on her palms, but they’ve disappeared now. I had the she-wolf repaired and Lyanna never said a word but I fear that she must know and hate our girl.” Elia curls into herself. “And now Rhae is in a very delicate position. _She_ could ruin everything, have Rhae taken out of the line of succession by claiming she’s mad, and then Aegon will be exposed—”

Baelor kisses her forehead. “Then we shall make our counters to her plots. What do you plan to do with our girl?”

“Gods willing, I’ll convince Rhaegar to let Rhae come back with us to Oldtown. She’ll be happier there without the court’s eye on her.” Baelor slowly nods. Elia has control over her children’s households and education as according to her marriage dissolution rights, but Rhaegar has the last say in where they actually live. He sets aside a few apartments in the Hightower for Rhaenys’s use, he makes a mental stock of the best sword masters and more…eclectic maesters. Those who focus on the mind and bring actual results rather than the hardhearted conventional maesters who would recommend a motherhouse and a locked attic for his girl.

Baelor is one of the richest and most powerful men in Westeros. He will do all he can for his family, including the most unsavory plots. And that is merely what his foolish hands can make; he smiles at her. “With you spearheading, anything we desire is within our grasp.” He kisses her hands and Elia laughs.

Something is thrown against the sun screen; a pillow lands with a pathetic plop on the ground. “Mama!” Daeron has his tiny fists on his hips, a perfect image of his mother’s wrath. “Papa! Come play!”

“Say please,” Elia says by rote.

“Please!” This time all of them, even Oberyn, plead with Daeron’s little voice. Baelor hates to admit it, but he is firmly wrapped around his children’s fingers.

Baelor kisses Elia again, just because he can, and rolls off the chaise. Daeron and Doryn crowd around him, giggling and demanding to play. “Forgive me,” Oberyn says and holds his hands up, “but the princesses have claimed me entirely and the twins deserve more attention.”

That they do, and all of his boys and girls. Baelor throws Doryn into the air and delights at his shriek. “My love,” he calls back to Elia who watches him with equal parts amusement and concern, “if you may please track down our Egg. It’s a lovely day and someone must rescue him from turning into a little maester in all those lessons.”

“Better a maester than a septon,” Oberyn whispers to Floris, “Those pretty white robes never last long out here.”

Elia gracefully slaps Oberyn upside his head as she heads towards the keep and they laugh. Baelor spies Rhaenys smiling at the corner of his eye, and she’s the vision of a young Elia come to the Hightower. There are those who would take that sweetness from her forever, and that of Aegon, Floris, the twins, Elia—Baelor will not have it. The gods pity those who try.

* * *

Later in the week, after he’s put out more of the fires in his letters and Elia argues for the third time why Rhaenys should be allowed to come to Oldtown, Baelor walks into a sort of music lesson.

Floris, his darling niece Margaery, Princess Daenerys all sit around Rhaenys who is playing what appears to be a type of hammered dulcimer. It is differently shaped than the Westerosi version or the more compact ones favored in the Free Cities, and the sound is as delicate and fresh as spring. The girls lean in as Rhaenys shows them how to vibrate the hammer so that they pay play against a key faster than their wrists can move. The musical scale is also different, more exotic than anything Baelor’s heard. It reminds him vaguely of music he’s heard in Volantis years and years ago.

Rhaenys, in another one of her Dornish wrap dresses, sits cross-legged and is a far cry from the terrified wraith in the throne room. Margaery asks for a proper song and Rhaenys plays something she calls “Spring on River Qing”. The song is beautiful, flowing from one hand to the next over the air and along the airy ceilings. Baelor sees how Rhaenys’s expression changes, how she concentrates like a proper musician—he should ask Elia to look into music lessons for her and the children, if only for the peace evident in Rhaenys’s face and shoulders.

Just like in the garden, she looks so much like Elia it hurts. Were it not for the silver-gold streaks in her hair, the Valryian shape of her cheekbones and frame, he’d think her sprung entirely from his wife’s dreams. Floris looks back and smiles at him. Floris has his golden hair and the Hightower build and eyes all her own, but she too has Elia’s skin, Elia’s lips, Elia’s sweetness. His girls. Baelor smiles back at her and she mouths at him to come closer.

Rhaenys finishes her song and they all clap. “Who taught you to play?” Margaery asks. “I wish I could play the same way.”

“It was my friend Xhen, this is actually his instrument but I’m keeping it safe.” Baelor flinches; all of Rhaenys’s friends are dead, or so Elia told him. Rhaenys smiles a shy little smile. “He was from Yi Ti and taught me how to play. Maybe if there’s a Yi Tish master here you could ask for lessons?”

“Papa knows how to find anything,” Floris preens, “if I ask very nicely he’ll find us an entire Yi Tish orchestra.”

Rhaenys perks up. Margaery grins at Baelor. “Uncle Baelor is a master of making things happen, Your Highness, if you need anything just ask him.”

“Just Rhaenys is fine,” Rhaenys ducks her head and twists a loose thread around her finger. “It’s weird being called Your Highness so often.”

“Then you must call me Margaery.” Margaery scoots next to Rhaenys and gives her a genuine smile. Baelor could throttle his sister’s husband and good mother for being the cause of Margaery’s smiles usually being false. “We are to be sisters soon, which I’m thankful for since I only have my brothers to bother me.”

Floris shrugs. “Willas and Garlan aren’t that bad. Loras is…well, he’s better than Harry Hardyng.”

“Most slugs are better than Harry.” Margaery and Floris giggle while Rhaenys raises her eyebrows and Daenerys smirks. “Yes, my brothers are nice, but they’ve entirely abandoned me here with Loras. I could do without any other boy who isn’t Aegon.”

“I think you’d throw every boy in the world into the sea if it meant you could kiss my brother.”

“You say that like I couldn’t.”

They laugh again and even Rhaenys smiles. Baelor is glad for it. He’s also glad when Aegon pokes his head in and asks, “Is today music? I thought it was yesterday.”

“The high harp was yesterday and the bells in two days. It hardly matters since your hands are too clumsy for this instrument,” Margaery teases him.

The children make room for Aegon and Aemon, always his brother’s shadow. Rhaenys looks at Aegon’s arm bandage then looks down at her lap. Then Aegon slings that arm around her. “Is that so? Rhaenys, would you be so kind to compose a ballad for me then since I can’t do it myself?”

Rhaenys tilts her head. “About what?”

Aemon and Floris share a grin. “About how big a head he has, perhaps.”

“Yes, and a marvelous head I have. You’re just jealous that I inherited the egg shape.”

Rhaenys laughs. Baelor notes how they all are together with his girl: Aegon and Floris are the most comfortable with Rhaenys, as is to be expected. Margaery is friendly, although he can see the reserve keeping her from being like Aegon and using Rhaenys as a helping stand and a pillow. In due time, especially with her marriage to Aegon in just over a year. Daenerys watches them all in her distant way; for all he’s known her, Baelor has never seen the princess truly laugh. A shame, for she has all the gracious loveliness of the Queen Mother and deserves happiness. Then there is Aemon, who stares at Rhaenys when she’s not looking, like she’s a puzzle for him to decipher. Baelor doesn’t like that too much.

But still, it is good for all of them to bond, especially with Aemon’s mother pouting about Rhaenys’s return and whispering her _concerns_ to Rhaegar. His ear can always be found in her lap, of course.

Over the next few days he sees them stick together. Music lessons, sewing lessons, sparring with Rhaenys refusing to do more than practice maneuvers and hand combat, sneaking into the kitchens to steal a pie…they are young. They are young and ought to have even more friends to prepare them for their lives ahead. In a moment of peace in their rooms, he asks Elia about what to do with Aegon and Rhaenys’s households. Elia, hair let down from her Oldtown-style updo and her feet resting in his lap, stretches her arms out over her head. “Rhaegar refuses to let Rhaenys come back to Oldtown, wretched idiot he is. But perhaps if I fill their households with friendly faces Rhaenys shall fare better.”

Margaery for sure, perhaps Desmera if her health allows it, girls from all over the Seven Kingdoms to build her and Aegon’s support base…and friends. Gods know they need more friends.

He seeks out Rhaenys to ask her opinion about the household—Elia would do it herself but Rhaella came down with a chill and Elia is at her former good mother’s side—and finds Rhaenys hiding in an alcove with her maidservant. Baelor thinks the girl’s name is Melly, or Nelly, and the girl is wiping her eyes in Rhaenys’s handkerchief. The picture of misery. Baelor can’t hear them from his place and doesn’t wish to intrude on their privacy, but he sees how miserable the girl is and how compassionate Rhaenys is. How she rests her hands on the girl’s shoulders, how she asks her quiet questions and the girl nods or shakes her head. Perhaps some immoral stableboy has promised the girl lies and now she’s heavy with a bastard. Baelor shakes his head and returns to his apartments. On the way he runs into one of Floris’s maidservants and asks, “I just saw a maid—I believe her name is Melly—”

“Poor duck,” the maid shakes her head. “Her mam’s died just a day past, tripped down the stairs with the laundry. Melly’s torn up but she has her sisters Agnes and Liya to take money home for so she hasn’t gone home.”

Poor child. When Baelor’s mother died, he was despondent for a year. And then his other stepmothers all gone in the birthing bed; he can forgive his father many things, but putting his wives in danger over a sixth and seventh vanity heir is something Baelor cannot forgive. Not after Elia nearly died giving birth to the twins and Baelor was ready to throw himself out the window in shame for bringing his love so much pain.

He asks about her family—two sisters, a stepfather, all from just above Flea Bottom—and discreetly makes arrangements for Melly to receive enough money to bury her mother in a marked grave. From what Floris says, the girl is the only one of Rhaenys’s maidservants to treat her with any kindness, she deserves that much.

And for the next few days, that is that. Melly continues her duties, Rhaenys continues to tread water in court, Elia continues to be the light of Baelor’s life. There are some rumors about the extent of Aegon’s injuries and their context that they do their best to smother, and more letters come from the Free Cities about the red algae blooms. But from what Baelor sees, all is much the same as it ever was, with the wild sea breeze and the balmy warmth rising over Kings Landing.

He has no reason at all to suspect anything more or less than what he sees before him. But when he and Elia don plain clothes so that they may walk along the halls of the Red Keep and spy on their children—Aegon is definitely sneaking off with Margaery to go to the gardens with Floris as their less than trustworthy chaperone, they must scold them tomorrow but they doubt anything bad shall come of it—Baelor sees something unexpected. Someone dressed in dark colors slides between the hallways like a shadow, so quick and quiet he mistakes it for a shadow at first. But then the moon glints and he sees a hint of red where their eyes should be; it’s Rhaenys. Baelor points her out and Elia wants to follow her. But they don’t call Rhaenys out; Baelor doesn’t want to startle her.

They follow her down a twist of hallways that only the servants use, out a door to the laundry grounds and through a hidden gate that perhaps only Maegor knew of. Then they go further into the city, further into more and more dilapidated houses, until they stop before a little house where all the windows are blacked out. A cart rests by the back door, and Baelor and Elia look at each other. Why are they here? What business does Rhaenys have here?

One of the windows is not entirely covered by a blackout curtain, and with a quiet adjustment Baelor pushes the curtain aside. He and Elia peer into a smallfolk’s house; does this have anything to do with Melly?

Rhaenys stands in the central room of the house. There’s a strange matte black tarp on the floor held down with books and pans and other heavy weights. Baelor knows no smallfolk could afford a pure black tarp of this size, Rhaenys must’ve brought it or had someone set it up. On a table are a large jug of steaming war, black towels of the same strange material and what looks like a change of clothes and a pair of boots. Rhaenys’s hands curl into claws, and her voice—oh, her voice. It crackles with hatred. “Hold bold of you to make your hovel here, Hothar. Made things a lot easier for me.”

The man she speaks to backs against a wall, and his hands scramble for a weapon. Baelor doesn’t recognize him—he is incredibly plain, perhaps intentionally so. “I—I don’t want no trouble, I don’t know what you’ve heard but it ain’t true!”

Rhaenys laughs and Baelor shudders. It’s not so much a laugh but a shrill stuttering of poisonous delight. Elia trembles by Baelor’s side and he steps in front of her. Rhaenys leers at Hothar, “Melly’s told me much. How you wooed her mother in those four long years since I saw you last. How you got bored, and I know you when you’re bored. You get angry. You get…creative. And everyone knows that a mother fallen down the stairs breaks a neck yes, but all the bones in her arms and legs too?” Rhaenys tsks and shakes her head. “Very sloppy. And you’ve gotten too free with your stepdaughters—Melly’s told me much about you and what you’ve done to her. I hope she’s told you what the Butcher does to child fuckers. Gods know you and all the others taught me much.”

Hothar’s eyes go wide. “…no, it can’t be.” He points a finger at her and his voice cracks in terror. “You—you’re supposed to be dead! Euron carved your belly out! I saw him throw you into the fire!”

Elia holds in a gasp. Baelor is going to be sick. They did _what?!_

“Aye.” Rhaenys smiled with bright white teeth. Have they always been that long and sharp? “He’s not here to be sorry for that.” Melly appears at the top of the stairs with two younger girls who have the same reddish hair and freckles. They shove a man down the stairs and he tumbles to a graceless thud at Rhaenys’s feet. Rhaenys gasps, then calls out, “And Tarion too? My lucky day.”

* * *

**Start of scene**

* * *

Melly nods and there’s such vicious hate in her eyes, Baelor cannot fathom where these young girls find all this hate. “He won’t leave Agnes be, my princess. They, neither of them will leave us be! And he killed Ma!” She sucks in a breath, then holds up a silver coin. She says with trembling words, “I have a commission for the Butcher. Two men, Hothar and Tarion, who have done me and mine terrible harm.”

A silent transformation descends over Rhaenys. She stands taller, she looks like a scrap of shadow flickering in and out of the light. The air vibrates with ill intent, with violence. Rhaenys does a little bow and Baelor can’t breathe. Elia sobs into her hands. By the gods…Rhaenys’s eyes are so red, red as blood! Red as blood, red as the moon outside! “The Butcher accepts your commission.”

Then she rears her leg back, and kicks in Tarion’s teeth.

Tarion chokes out a bloody mass and Hothar charges towards Rhaenys with a hearth poker in hand. But when he stabs at her arm, the wound left behind closes up so quickly Baelor can see the seam of blood left behind is but a thin line. Rhaenys grabs the poker and twists it out of the man’s grip. Then, she spins and kicks Tarion’s jaw clean from his head and stabs down into his lower back. She rips it up through his flesh alongside his spine while the man convulses and his tongue flops against the bloody floor. He goes still once the poker embeds in the back of his neck.

Hothar cries out for help. But before he can get out more than a shout, Rhaenys leaps upon him. Her thighs squeeze hard around his ribs, hard enough that Baelor hears ribs crack. Hothar tries to gouge out her eyes, strangle her, anything—but he is a fool and lets his hands drift too closely to her mouth. Rhaenys bites down and snaps her head aside. Four fingers spit themselves across the room to land silently on the tarp.

She wasn’t lying. She can bite a man’s fingers off. It looks so _easy_.

Her head jerks then four more the other way. Two thumbs. A wrist. Half an arm. Rhaenys bites through muscle and bone with no effort at all and with every sickening crunch and snap more and more of Hothar is gone. Hothar loses himself to fear, he opens and closes his mouth without screaming. Only strangled gasps hiss from his mouth. Once his arms are but stumps, Rhaenys stands up and places her dainty foot on his heaving belly. Then she stomps. And stomps. And stomps until the insides of Hothar are on his outsides. A final stomp to his throat ends it.

All the while, Rhaenys says not a single word. Only heaving panting to match the savage feral _rage_ in her blood moon eyes.

Rhaenys stands up in the mess of carnage, and with her bowed shoulders and her panting and all the blood soaked through her clothes and splattered up her arms and face…she is a monster. Baelor squeezes his eyes shut and tries to banish the thought, but all he can see is Tarion’s flopping tongue, all he can hear is the wet crunching of Hothar’s arms bitten off his body—

Rhaenys is a monster. The Butcher. And she has just butchered two people in the heart of Kings Landing.

Oh gods, what has she done?!

* * *

**End of scene**

* * *

Rhaenys bows once more to Melly. Quick as the shadows filtering through the little windows, she then strips herself of her clothes, even her boots. She scrubs herself clean with the towels dipped into the steaming water, and with the brutal efficiency of a war commander—of a killer—she is cleaned and dressed into new clothes. Then she rolls the tarp over the clothes, the towels, the savaged corpses, and bundles the roll. With an adjustment of ties built into the reverse side of the tarp she has a neat little package, and not one splatter of gore incriminates the house. Rhaenys mutters to herself in a hideous language Baelor doesn’t understand before snapping her fingers and saying, “Left the cart outside.”

She turns and sees Baelor and Elia through the window. Rhaenys goes shock still. Elia steps out from behind Baelor and knocks gently on the door. Rhaenys snarls, her face pure violence and wrath, until it smooths out. Then there is shock and horror. “M-Mother?!”

“Open the door, please.” Baelor doesn’t understand how calm Elia’s voice is. He himself can hardly find the composure to breath. Rhaenys opens the door and Baelor is afraid to go in. Two men are dead. He watched them die, he watched them be slaughtered. Elia pulls on his hand and Baelor enters the house.

He can’t even smell the blood from the tarp bundle.

What has she done?

Rhaenys shifts in front of them with her head bowed and her arms wrapped around her middle, like she is but a girl of ten and has broken a plate. “…they had it coming. I know that sounds—it doesn’t sound enough. But they had it coming.” She shudders. “Most of the crew of the Silence were mutes by force. Slaves and thralls. I pity what became of them. But those who got to keep their tongues were men that _he_ kept as allies and conspirators—they did things to me, and to poor Seniya and Valarr from Lys. Such…such evil things. I’m the only one who survived the voyage. And then they did the same to Melly and her mother and sisters, and when she told me—I couldn’t just do nothing!”

“Rhaenys…” Baelor’s voice leaves in a rush of breath. She was only twelve when Greyjoy took her. He can only image all too well what they did and his heart shatters into cold dripping pieces.

Elia steps forward and Rhaenys steps back. “No, Mother! You need to know what kind of monster I am!” Rhaenys kicks the bundle; it makes only the softest of noises. “I had this tarp and towels commissioned special because I knew from the moment the Doom came and I survived that I would kill every single one of those bastards! They don’t deserve to live! I’ve killed six of them before, and two today, and all the rest will meet their deaths by my hand! Them, and every other monster who hurt those who can’t fight back!” She turns away from them and Baelor sees how her body shakes. “It’s all evil in shades and I know that. Monsters killing monsters, all the way down…”

“Oh Rhaenys…”

Elia approaches her like how she approaches a frightened Balerion, or Aegon after he’s had a night terror. She rests her hands on Rhaenys cheeks and murmurs, “I don’t care what you’ve done. If that makes me a monster too then so be it. But you’re being incredibly dangerous and foolish.” Rhaenys’s mouth opens in shock and Elia hisses, “You’ve kept the blood from the floors and walls, but what if anyone else had seen it like Baelor and I did? What if they heard? How are you going to get the bodies out of Kings Landing? What will you do if someone finds out and uses this to hurt you, and your family? You don’t know what kind of city Kings Landing is, what kind of court you live in—this could bring ruin.”

Rhaenys’s eyes fill with tears; her voice is small and crackles with shame. “You were never supposed to be involved.”

“I am your mother! Baelor is your stepfather! Your siblings, your uncles and aunts—we are here for you! And you need to start acting smart about this, if this is what you’re going to do.” Elia turns towards Melly peering from the top of the staircase and demands, “Who else knew about this?”

“Just us, Your Highness.” Melly trembles under Elia’s burning gaze but to her credit she does not buckle. “We thought of a story, Hothar and Tarion were supposed to go to Lord Harroway’s Town on business tonight and no one will expect them back for three weeks. My sisters and me, we won’t say a word. We swear it.” She shakes her head back and forth. “Now we can sleep without worrying if he’s awake and wanting—it’s over. The princess saved us and we won’t forget it.”

One of the smaller girls says that Rhaenys is their hero and Baelor must hold his hand to his mouth to keep from laughing. She’s their hero. Their knight in black leather. It’s just as true as her being a monster…Baelor shudders. His girl is a monster. And yet, and yet, even with the memory of tonight bloodstained into his mind, he loves her anyway. What does that make him? Or Elia?

It matters not. Not for him. It never has, not when he loves them.

Rhaenys quietly trundles away the tarp bundle in a cart she brought ahead of time, and with more assurances from the girls that they will tell no one, they leave with only the moonlight to follow them. It’s the silence of midnight—most people are sleeping, but there are still people walking about drinking, gossiping, carting out night soil. Baelor blinks. There are no guards come running, there are no stretches of tense silence from people hiding…no one knows. How can that be, that two men have met their bloody end and not a person knows?

Elia shushes him and his aloud thoughts. Baelor grits his teeth, and Rhaenys whispers by his side, “You can wash your hands of this. You were never supposed to know.”

Baelor sighs. He lays a hand on her shoulder and murmurs, “You’re my girl. I wouldn’t wash my hands of this knowing you’re in danger.”

He couldn’t save her from Greyjoy, he couldn’t save her from becoming the Butcher, he couldn’t save this darling girl of his beloved from the horror he saw through the window. But he is here now. And if that damns him to the seven hells, then so do his plans if Lyanna ever decides to advance Aemon over Aegon. At least this time the only blood need shed are the vicious bastards who have souls black as pitch.

No one pays them any mind. Rhaenys brings the tarp back behind a pot shop where smoke spewed from the dismal chimneys, and Baelor watches her unfurl it in a tucked away corner. She whispers to them to go ahead as it is more suspicious of large groups to walk back to the Keep at night than smaller ones and they leave her behind. He doesn’t watch what she does with the bodies; later she tells him that the Butcher butchered the corpses into skinned small pieces and left them in an oilsack cloth by the backdoor, and the bones scattered out a window overlooking the Blackwater Bay. If they do make their way back to shore, no one will recognize them as being human much less those two men. People go missing every day in Westeros, and no one is expecting them back for weeks.

Dawn rises over Baelor cradling Elia close as she sobs into his chest. She blames herself for not demanding custody of her children all those years ago, for not searching further Essos earlier, for not being in a thousand places at once. Baelor shushes her. “We can do nothing now but move forward,” he says into her hair. “We can help her now. We can find those men who hurt her and then…and then we will do what we must.” Him and Elia for certain, and Oberyn will be more than glad to help, as will Jaime. Aegon and Floris need never know, they will protect Rhaenys in a different way. And once it’s all said and done, Rhaenys will come home to Oldtown and that will be the end of this misery. That will be the end of the monstrosity.

Elia’s voice is dull. “Rhaegar and Lyanna can’t know what happened to Rhaenys, they’ll have her in the Silent Sisters for the killing and for what those bastards did to her. There can be no trials, no whispering birds or mice.”

Baelor kisses her. “We will do what we must.”

He will help his girl kill half a dozen more men. He will aid and abet murder. And he will do it willingly, to protect Elia’s smile and Rhaenys’s peace of mind.

The things he does for those he loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we get an oof in the chat? Because I feel oofs are needed. If you’ve read or watched the Witcher, you know how Renfri was known as the Shrike for impaling a whole lot of people with whatever she had on hand. This time around it’s the teeth that are notorious.
> 
> Baelor is ride or die for Elia and their blended family, and that includes helping Rhaenys with her “Everyone on the Silence needs to die” conviction. It helps that in Westeros going on bloody rampages of revenge is a touch more socially acceptable than our world, although Elia is right: absolutely no one can know the truth about what happened to Rhaenys and what she’s doing. If it were Aegon, maybe he could get away with it but he’d definitely lose his position as heir and no one would really want to marry him. Rhaenys, a girl and an angry Dornish looking girl at that? Becoming a silent sister would be her best option.
> 
> For the record: I’m not going to go into very explicit detail about what happened to Rhaenys on the Silence in this story, because I think you already know what happened and it feels exploitative to write it in detail. Let’s just say the deaths in this chapter were 100% justified.
> 
> “Spring on River Qing” is an actual song played on the Chinese yangqin, a type of hammered dulcimer. If you look it up on YouTube, the first result is what Rhaenys plays.


	4. Vacancy in the Princessguard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve started online classes as a full-time student now and hopefully I’ll be able to get a job soon since I have literally no money and have to live with my parents’. As a result future updates might be a bit slow in coming, but I swear I’ll finish this story!

Brienne looks up from the ground to where Kings Landing shimmers in the hazy sunlight, and wishes for home.

When Papa received the summons for Brienne to go to the Red Keep to be part of the newly returned Princess Rhaenys’s household, she wasn’t sure of what to make of it. Other ladies are already there, proper ladies—Sansa Stark and Myrcella Lefford and Ysilla Royce and Allyria Dayne. Not to mention Margaery Tyrell who shall be queen one day, and clever Floris Hightower who is a princess in Dorne. So why is Brienne, ugly and too-tall and mannish, going to such a feminine place?

Papa clasps her shoulder; on their horses they are the same height. “I can hear your anxiety from the other size of the baggage train. What troubles you?”

If Galladon were alive, he’d be a part of Prince Aegon’s household. He would’ve been perfect, from what she remembers of him he was a bright and considerate boy, exactly what a prince needed in a lord. But he is gone and she is here and she’s a poor replacement. Brienne fights down the urge to cry. She’s sixteen now, not a little girl anymore. “I’m alright, Papa,” she lies. “I’m just worried of how I will do at court.”

“The Queen mentioned in the summons that the Princess Rhaenys is also struggling to keep up with court.” Papa shakes his head and Brienne feels sympathy for the lost princess. The rumors in Tarth are that Rhaenys had to butcher rapers and murders and fed them to the wolves skulking around the Lands of the Long Summer so they wouldn’t eat her alive. And then she was taken to Slaver’s Bay as a forced courtesan where she burned down a palace to save her honor! There are other rumors too, that Rhaenys enjoyed the bloodshed and refuses to leave Essos before she bathed in the blood of a thousand innocents. But Brienne doesn’t give them much thought. If she were the one dragged away by Euron Crow’s Eye to be thrown into the Smoking Sea, she’d do whatever it took to get back to Tarth and Papa.

Still, in a way it comforts her that no everyone in the Red Keep is a consummate courtier. She looks down at her travel tunic and breeches and fears the collection of dresses in her trunks. They say Rhaenys and Aegon are both tall like the king, maybe she can hide behind them.

Papa stops the traveling party and tells them to take a rest before the final half-day push to the capital. He pauses, then winks at her and motions at the long wooden fence separating fallow land and curated forest. “I suppose no one would notice if a few fence posts are chipped here and there.” Brienne gasps, then hugs Papa tightly. “I heard both of the princesses take some sort of sword practice to keep up with the princes, I’ll see if I can convince the sword master to take you on as well.”

“Thank you,” and Brienne sends her thanks to the Father for giving her such a father.

Once the others are either preoccupied or turning a blind eye to their odd heir to Tarth, Brienne takes out her wooden practice sword. She’s technically out-grown it but she wouldn’t dare ask for another when Papa already courts shame with a daughter like her. So instead she steads her stance, holds it like Papa showed her, and swings. And swings, and swings, and stabs, and the fence takes the brunt. She doesn’t know how long she practices, only that the sun is warm on her neck and her hair sticks to her forehead. And when someone says, “I hope I’ll never upset you like this fence,” she squeals and whips around.

A smallfolk girl stands a safe distance away on the fallow side of the fence. Her hood is pulled up and her dark hair in her face so Brienne can only clearly see how wide her bright white smile is. “Are you Lady Brienne of Tarth? Ma said that she was coming to join the Red Keep today and that she was a swordswoman so I wanted to see.”

“…I am no swordswoman, miss.” Still, Brienne flushes at the admiration in the girl’s exotic lilting voice. Is she really so famous—or infamous—all the way in the Crownlands? “And if you would be so kind as to not tell anyone—”

“Care to spare? I’ve got this sword but my brothers are busy today and I shan’t bother Ma or Pa.” There’s indeed a wooden sword under the girl’s rough black cloak. Perhaps her parents can’t afford live steel for a daughter, or she’s borrowed it from a hedge knight’s squire “You’re taller than my brothers, go easy on me, milady?”

Well…there’s no one watching them, and Brienne hasn’t sparred with anyone her own age before, only Papa and Evenfall Hall’s master at arms. Brienne nods and the girl claps her hands. They cross over into the fallow field where the long grass helps hide them from view, and Brienne raises her sword. “On your start, miss.”

The girl grins. And then as quick as a serpent, Brienne is blocking from her attack. By the gods, she’s fast! Brienne nearly trips over herself defending from the girl, she strikes out like a viper with no pattern she can notice. And with a sweep of her long legs, Brienne is on her ass in the dirt. “Wait, are you ok?”

Brienne blushes and pulls herself up. That’s what she gets for underestimating a smallfolk, Papa would be on his own ass laughing…and yet the thrill rushes through her veins. Brienne smiles. “I’m perfectly fine. Let’s try again?”

Oh, she’s a challenge! The next time Brienne lasts a full minute before the girl elbows Brienne in the armpit to get her to drop her sword. The next time after that Brienne nearly disarms the girl but forgets to check the girl’s range and gains a rough scrape on her arm. Her partner stops and is horrified but Brienne presses on again. So many times Brienne comes close, only t. o be swept off her feet.

But with the sun and sparring warming her blood, and having lost so many times, Brienne finally sees her advantage: she’s taller and heavier than the girl, and the girl depends on long range attacks. She pauses, letting the girl strike forward. Then she swings her sword up to deflect the girl’s weapon, and slams her whole body forward. They tumble and Brienne ends up with the girl pinned beneath her. They pant for breath, and the girl’s hair is finally out of her face.

Brienne has never seen red eyes before. It startles her for a moment, until she realizes how bright they are, like the cherry trees on Tarth.

“You finally got me,” the girl says with a laugh. Brienne flushes again—it hardly helps that her face must be entirely red from exertion—and rolls off her. She helps her to her feet. They brush dirt and grass out of their hair and clothes, before the girl does a little curtsy. “Now I can say I was bested in battle by Brienne of Tarth!”

“More like you bested me,” Brienne admits. “I’ve never seen someone move so quickly before.”

“I’m a bit petite so I fight like a snake, only way to keep my brothers from stealing my pudding.” They both laugh because in truth the girl is rather tall for her age. But compared to Brienne, she’s a willow. “You’re different though, you're amazing. Entirely wonderful. If you use your own height and weight more often, and keep ahead of your enemy’s footwork, I doubt even the Kingsguard can defeat you.” Brienne’s heart hammers to hear the girl’s praise. Only Papa and the master at arms say such nice things to her. The girl steps back. “I must be going home now. I hope to see you again one day.”

Brienne opens her mouth to ask the girl her name, where she lives. But just like that she turns and runs into the fallow until Brienne loses track of her. Brienne wipes her forehead of sweat and shakes her head. Becoming a lady-in-waiting to a princess, sparring with a smallfolk girl with pretty red eyes…how bizarre, and how wonderful. She presses her hand to her heart and wills it to beat slower. Then Papa calls for her and Brienne hurries back to the travelling party.

Before she knows it, Kings Landing grows all around her, envelops her in the sounds and the smells and the colors. The towns of Tarth favor white stucco buildings and slate roofs, to protect them from the heat and storms, and to compliment the sapphire seas surrounding the isle. But here everything is made of brick and stone, and some areas reek of shit and others reek of perfume. So many people surround her, selling and stealing and shouting. Does the smallfolk girl live here? Brienne didn’t even ask for her name, how awful! And high above them the Red Keep is like a pale ruby in the sunlight. Brienne’s never seen such a castle before, Storm’s End is as grand but in a different, more brutal way. This castle is like from a fairy tale. Brienne snorts; if this is a fairy tale, she must be an ogre.

They ride up to the gates and are greeted by the King himself. Princess Elia Hightower is with them and Brienne gawks. Everyone knows of how Elia preempted her marriage’s annulment and gave evidence of King Rhaegar’s…eccentricities. Madness, if Brienne is being truthful. She wonders if they must hate each other. She’d hate a man who would try and throw herself and her children away over a prophecy that wasn’t true! Brienne then wonders how Queen Lyanna must fit into all this. She hopes she is kinder than the stories say, otherwise it’ll be like Papap’s former mistress Lady Kylessa all over again. Such terrible words she would whisper, words that haunt Brienne still—

“You have traveled far, please refresh yourselves. Come to the Great Hall at eventide to celebrate your arrival and for Lady Brienne’s formal acceptance in the Princess’ Household.” Elia’s calm voice sets Brienne at ease. She can at least wash the sweat and dirt away before she properly embarrasses herself!

And their guest rooms—Brienne shall have shared apartments with the other ladies—are as grand as Papa’s personal rooms. Brienne scrubs herself clean with a bemused servant’s help; braids her hair with Dornish shea butter so her hair strands won’t escape; and reluctantly dresses in her best gown. It is sapphire blue damask with lighter blue patterns over the bodice and outer skirts; Papa says it matches her eyes. But she’s too tall and too large with no waist or bust to speak of, and feels like she’s a pavilion tent. Princess Daenerys is said to be one of the most beautiful women in Westeros, as are Rhaenys and Margaery and all the rest. She pinches herself until she calms down. She’s ugly when she cries. Best not to make an even worse impression.

When they return to the Great Hall Brienne can smell the feast inside and her stomach growls. Papa chuckles and gives her a quick hug. “You’ll do fine, my dear heart. Now let’s go make a scene.”

* * *

The King and Queen are on the Iron Throne, with the princes and princesses on the dais beneath them. Princes Aegon and Aemon are as different as sun and moon and make a perfectly regal image. Daenerys truly is as beautiful as moonlight, and Rhaenys—Brienne gasps. She knows those bright red eyes. Rhaenys smiles at her and winks, and part of the heavy anxiety weighting down Brienne’s stomach lessens. She’s already met the princess. She’s already crossed swords with her! Then the anxiety reforms into hot mortification. She pinned down her princess and beat her! She called her miss like some smallfolk peasant! Brienne flushes a blotchy red. Not even Papa’s steadying hand makes her feel better.

To her horror, during the feast Brienne is placed with the rest of her household at their own table. She’s placed next to Floris—does she call her my lady or my princess?—and Margaery with Rhaenys on the other side of her sister. She doesn’t dare look her way, not after she pinned her down in the grass and dirt! Brienne looks down at her plate, the food far richer than she can stomach. Sansa smiles at her from across the table. She has a very kind smile with no guile behind it. “How old are you, Lady Brienne?”

“Six,” Brienne tries to not swallow her own tongue, “sixteen, my lady.”

“Just like Princess Rhaenys then. I’ll be sixteen soon enough,” Allyria says. “Ysilla and I are both fifteen still, Margaery and Sansa are fourteen like Princess Daenerys, Myrcella and Floris are twelve—”

“Just turned twelve,” Floris announces with pride. Brienne can’t help but smile to see the way she preens; it reminds her of a peacock from a mummer’s troupe that visited Tarth once. “Mama wanted Rhaenys to come home with us to Oldtown, but she’s a royal princess and must keep Daenerys company. So I’ve come here instead to make sure everyone stays in line.” She sighs. “If only Arianne and Vissy could’ve stayed, but Uncle Doran is very sick and they need to—well, they need to be in Dorne until he gets better. They’ve promised to come straight back when he’s better again and just you wait, Arianne will definitely keep everyone in line.”

Daenerys, who is a vision of cool moonlight in the orange and red lamp light, just smiles a mild smile. “We are in good hands then.”

Brienne twists her hands in her lap. “Is there anyone to worry about there?” She can already imagine it: cold-hearted courtiers with silver tongues and souls of pitch, come to take all their honor and dowries and happiness. That is if they bother with her at all, they might look at her and sell her to a freak collection!

Ysilla narrows her sharp eyes across the table. “They’re sitting right across from us. Gods preserve us from the stupidity of green boys.”

Brienne looks up. The princes’ household have their own table as well, crowded around Aegon who is talking animatedly and Aemon whose dark eyes glance between his brother and other tables. Floris points them all out in one long screed. “You’ve seen my brothers, and that’s Harry Hardyng from the Vale—he’s a ponce so avoid him—and Monford Velaryon from Driftmark—he’s a bit shy, I might marry him one day—and Patrek Mallister from the Riverlands—he’s cheerful and dumb as a sack of rocks—and cousin Quentyn Martell from Dorne—a stick in the mud sometimes but dependable—and Theon Greyjoy from the Iron Islands—don’t worry he’s actually not that bad—and Joffrey Lefford from the Westerlands—he’s _definitely_ that bad—and finally Robb Stark—that’s Sansa’s twin and she says he’s perfectly fine.” All in one breath! Brienne can hardly keep up, she wonders how Floris didn’t go blue in the face! Floris looks up at her with her fox-like golden eyes and seems to look right through her. But then she grins; she has a little gap between her front teeth and Brienne feels a rush of protectiveness towards that innocent smile. “I think we’ll all be the best of friends here. If you ever have a problem just tell me and I’ll fix it, I can fix everything.”

Bold words from a twelve-year-old girl. Still, Floris was the one to find Rhaenys, after all. People on Tarth could hardly believe the tale even as they read it from the official record. But making Brienne a proper court lady might require a miracle. She can hardly make eye contact with Rhaenys at all! But then Rhaenys switches with Floris so that she’s right next to her. Brienne keeps herself from flinching because when sitting down Rhaenys only comes to her shoulder. One wrong move and Brienne might knock her off the bench—she would surely die on the spot of embarrassment—

Rhaenys tilts her head. Then she murmurs under the sound of the bards, “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I didn’t really want to lie when I met you, but I wanted to see what you were like before all this,” she waves her hand around at the crowds of people, the bards, the tapestries, the everything. Gods, it’s stifling in the Great Hall, Brienne can barely breathe. But Rhaenys’s voice, such an interesting accent Brienne can’t recognize, is like a glass of cold water. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot either, but when I saw you sparring…I don’t know, I thought it would be fun. I apologize.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, I should be apologizing. I knocked you to the ground and treated you like—like—”

“Like a friend.” Rhaenys smiles and Brienne finds herself smiling back, it’s infectious. “I also hurt your arm, so knocking me to the ground was perfectly fine. A very good knockdown too, I wasn’t lying about using your weight and height. I wish I was that tall.” Brienne flushes and fiddles with her handkerchief. Only Papa says her height is a nice thing. Rhaenys asks, “Can we be friends then? And sparring partners maybe? Only Aegon and Aemon spar with me, and they’re good, but it’s not like with you.”

Could it be that simple? To have friends here, and practice with her sword? Brienne searches the princess’s face for signs of deception, but all she can see are her bright eyes and how nice her full smile is. Brienne nods; she’s too overwhelmed to speak. Rhaenys grins again and her eyes are like the torches above their heads. Margaery leans in and asks, “Is it true you broke Ser Humfrey Wagstaff’s ribs? I despise that man, he once came here and deeply insulted Floris for not “acting like a lady ought”.”

Brienne wonders if her face could become possibly more red. “He told me the same when we were betrothed just a few moons past. And yes, I did break his ribs.”

Ysilla looks at her with pure admiration in her hazel eyes. “Teach me. If I have to bear one more moment of Harry and the rest of the Vale, I will surely go mad!”

“O-Of course, if Princess Rhaenys allows—”

“Call me Rhaenys, please,” and Brienne can hardly imagine calling a royal princess of the blood by a nickname! Rhaenys spears a potato and waves it around. “Lessons for all of us, just to be fair.”

And despite her ugly hair and overly freckled face and crooked teeth…despite it all, Brienne finds herself surrounded by ladies who want to be her friend. That night she stifles her shrieks of excitement into her pillow. She will have friends! And a sparring partner! It truly must be a fairy tale then. She goes to sleep dreaming of one day being a knight, a lady knight to protect fair ladies, and Rhaenys laughing with her ruby red eyes as she knights her with the legendary Dark Sister…

It is a lovely dream and Brienne keeps it close to heart.

* * *

Brienne adjusts her stance from where she stands. For all of her new friends’ encouragement, she is not built for taking tea with stuffy old dowagers and exchanging Myrish lace-embroidered insults. Not at all like the other ladies, they were born for this. Daenerys is queen of hiding her emotions so well that sometimes Brienne forgets that she’s not made of marble. Margaery is charming and a gust of rose-fresh air and always knows what to say. Sansa is earnest and sweet as spring with a spine of Northern steel. Ysilla cuts others to the quick with her innocent eyes and biting words. Allyria is as lovely as starry twilight and knows how to twists people around with her laughter. And Myrcella is intelligent, almost cunning but far too gracious and kind to be cruel.

Brienne is just Brienne, awkward and too loud and never knowing where to put her hands. So she stands to the side, right behind Rhaenys, and observes. It’s easier for her to see and understand court when she’s not directly interacting with it. She sees how Allyria is nervous around Sansa and Robb for a few weeks until they are entirely inseparable. How Margaery truly is in love with Aegon even if playing the courtly game and fake flirting with others makes her uncomfortable. How Prince Oberyn stays not only because Rhaenys and Floris are here, but because he doesn’t trust the king and queen. How Myrcella has a crush on both Quentyn and his brother Trystane and doesn’t know who to pursue. How Prince Aemon shadows Rhaenys and Aegon’s steps to ward away hedge knights and would-be mistresses who may try to seduce an heir to the Iron Throne. How Prince Doran is not going to get better and it will devastate Floris and Rhaenys. And how everyone circles around Rhaenys like sharks smelling blood in the water. One day it’s Rivermen, the next Reachers, the next marcher lords—they all bow and prattle on about being loyal servants, and Brienne sees how Rhaenys smiles without her eyes. How she doesn’t know what to do with her hands.

Her stomach clenches to see it. Don’t they understand she is newly returned from a years long nightmare? Maybe if Brienne were a knight—truly, maybe if they all could settle this in the training yard and she could strike them all down for running circles around their princess! Ser Jaime raises his eyebrows when she mutters this to a sympathetic Allyria one day, and oddly enough his regard of her seems to go up afterward.

Floris also hates to see her sister flounder, she is a coil of burning disgust at Brienne’s side during court. “They think that just because she’s been away for so long that they can reel her into their little game? No! I won’t have it!”

Margaery lays a hand on Brienne’s shoulder. When she leans she smiles like saying a jape at Floris’s expense; ever the consummate player. “Rhaenys suffered a terrible injury when she was stolen away and it cost her many of her memories. She goes to a special maester from Oldtown now to try and fix what’s been done to her, and I hope it works. The things she had to go through in Essos…she’s still finding her footing and she’ll need us to protect her.”

Brienne nods. Conviction vibrates in her bones. “Of course. What are we protecting her from?” But Brienne already has an idea, and his blasted name is Harry Hardyng.

He is heir to the Vale, as Jon Arryn’s last wife Lysa annulled her marriage with him after the rebellion and remarried a Darry. He’ll even take the Arryn name if his insufferable boastings are true. And Brienne has watched him for weeks. There’s nothing he loves more than seducing the servants and leaving them with prescriptions for moon tea and a string of broken hearts. How the princes tolerate him, Brienne has no idea. Perhaps they’re used to it, or they don’t observe him beyond his admittedly gallant exterior. Such a handsome face to hide a rotten core. She’s heard him when he gets drunk, he has plans to earn Rhaenys’s hand and her royal dowry. Brienne’s stomach twists in distaste—even with all the boys in that wretched household, Rhaenys is better off marrying none of them! Especially not him!

The other girls are in agreement about the boys. Whenever the two households collide when the royal siblings spar and play and study together, Brienne feels the ice descend. Robb is a good person, as are Quentyn and Monford…but even with those three, there is a frosty distance. Brienne watches the others at court and sees how only rarely the genders mix outside of dancing and flirting. The only exception tend to be siblings of course, or those who grew up as children together and therefore are practically siblings. “It’s because we’re on the two sides of the same coin,” Ysilla muses one day as they lounge in their rooms waiting for Rhaenys to return from her lessons with Elia and the Oldtown maester. Ysilla is splayed over the bed with one leg on Brienne’s lap and one arm on Daenerys’s. Ysilla with her Royce blood is the only one brave enough to be so casual with Daenerys, even Margaery hesitates around her, but Brienne is glad for it. Brienne’s never had girl friends before and feels a pleasant haze when they can be so comfortable together. “Have you ever seen a household with boys and girls our age mixed together? I doubt its in our nature to befriend them once we grow out of childhood. Such a shame.”

“I don’t know, in the Water Gardens we all played together no matter our sex,” Allyria says.

“And how many true boy friends did you make outside of your relatives?”

“…I suppose Quentyn and Trystane and Robb, but even then…” The last part is only whispered, and Brienne raises her eyebrows. She keeps silent though because she ponders her own childhood. Had Galladon lived to have friends, would she have played with them? Or would they have scorned each other for being the other gender? Would Galladon have scorned her one day? She shakes the bad thoughts out of her head and flicks Ysilla’s stomach for making her think them. Ysilla whines and even Daenerys giggles. It’s marvelous to have friends.

Margaery taps her nails on her embroidery hoop like a war general placing down figures. “Mother said that all boys their age are dreadful and I agree. We have to wait until they’re twenty to grow out of it, Monford is eighteen so he’s nearly there at least.” Patrek and Quentyn are fifteen, Harry and Theon are seventeen, and Robb and wretched little Joffrey Lefford are fourteen. Allyria groans and Sansa nods. “I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done for Joffrey. Sorry Cella.”

“It’s only the truth, I understand.” Myrcella shakes her head. “I wish Mother never sent him here, he’s awful at home and being the Lefford heir at court just inflates his stupid head.” She huffs. “What are we to do with them, though? An alliance is out of the question since I can hardly stand them, but if we’re to protect Rhaenys…”

“I’ll be our go-between,” and Sansa does a flouncing curtsy to make them all giggle. “I’ve got my courtesies for armor, and I’ll smother them with kindness until only Robb is left.”

Daenerys gives them a wide smile. “They won’t know what hit them.”

* * *

Oddly enough, Sansa befriends Aemon the most out of that hellhole boy’s group despite sticking to her twin Robb. Brienne rather likes Aemon, as he doesn’t hold back with her when they spar and is pleasant to all of the girls. She’s happy for it, and hopes Sansa will befriend all of them and rub her magic on them. Except for Harry and Joffrey, Brienne doubts there’s enough magic in the world to save them as she’s taken quite a bit for herself to survive in King’s Landing.

Brienne mentions this to Rhaenys as they spar and Rhaenys beams. “Isn’t it lovely? Egg says that Aemon never made too many friends when I was gone, so I’m glad he’s getting out of his shell.” Rhaenys whirls around with her spear like a valkyrie with sunlight for wings. She then sweeps Brienne off her feet onto the dusty training grounds. Brienne huffs and Rhaenys giggles. She helps her back up. “Speaking of getting out of shells, you’re doing better with getting out of your usual stances. One day you might be able to sweep me off my own feet with a spear, I’m sure Uncle Oberyn will help you.”

Brienne imagines it and laughs. “Revenge for all the times you’ve left me in the dirt.”

Rhaenys widens her eyes and affects an innocent voice. “Me? I’ve done nothing to deserve it!” Then she lunges forward and Brienne quickly swings up her sword. They have training swords, since Rhaenys refuses to use live steel when sparring. Brienne heard the stories about her accident with Aegon, and depending who you listen to she tripped her sword into his arm or tried to assassinate her brother and take the throne.

What rot. Brienne sees how much Rhaenys loves her brothers, how kind she is to her friends, how she uses half of her allowance to give away as alms to the smallfolk. Whoever made up that slander against her ought to indeed face her with live steel! Brienne uses her outrage to propel her movements and leverages Rhaenys’s spear out of her hands. Rhaenys pulls out a dagger and Brienne shifts her stance to accommodate the new weapon. Use her body, she remembers, use her weight, use her height, not as a bad thing but a good thing. Press forward. Dodge and feint. Press forward. Kick and spin. Press forward.

And then Rhaenys slams her dagger’s hilt into her ribs, so Brienne uses their closeness to her advantages and tackles Rhaenys to the ground. Brienne takes a moment to catch her breath. Rhaenys blinks up at her with admiration in her pretty eyes. “Suppose we call that one a draw?”

“A draw? Sister, Brienne could crush you.” Aegon smirks at them from the sideline and teases, “My lady, could you teach me how to do that? So the next time she dares to steal my orange tarts I can stop her in her tracks.”

Rhaenys laughs. “You need more meat on your bones for that! Brienne here is a lovely Amazon, I’m entirely jealous.” and Brienne blushes because she doesn’t hear mocking or disdain, she hears appreciation. Rhaenys thinks she’s pretty. She can barely breathe. Gods, someone thinks she’s pretty! Rhaenys tilts her head up at her. “Care to go again?”

“Always.” She helps her princess to her feet and they spar until the low is low and they’re both exhausted. Aemon escorts them back to their rooms, as Aegon was called into the Small Council and Aemon trusts few in the Red Keep. That Brienne can understand all too well. Later that night when everyone sleeps in their beds and she can hear Rhaenys’s quiet breathing, she wonders who Rhaenys trusts here.

Before she knows it, weeks have passed and her letters to Papa grow longer with more details of court. She omits half the things she knows out of fear of her ravens being stolen, but what she does write centers around the princess’ household. The Princessguard, as that little shit Joffrey called it.

Such a funny jape he thought it. He, just barely up to Brienne’s shoulders, sneered up at her and said she’s manly enough to be in the Kingsguard but that the Princessguard will have to do. As if that is an insult! Brienne feigned hitting him and he flinched, and Margaery laughed sweet and sharp enough to draw blood. Papa’s return letter is of his approval of Brienne’s ascension into the Princessguard, and soon enough everyone at court starts to call the household that.

Rhaenys is flustered until Floris hands her their younger Hightower brothers and tells her to play with them until she stops being embarrassed about having friends. Rhaenys blushes with all her curls around her face and Brienne’s heart squeezes until she must turn away. She spies Lord Connington glaring at them from across the common hall, and must keep herself from frowning.

He does not like Rhaenys, Floris, their brothers Daeron and Doryn, or Elia. It was odd at first to her, since he is entirely devoted to Aegon and they all share the same blood. But then she listened to him, listened to the way he talked about Floris’s “arrogance” and Rhaenys’s “hysteria” and Elia’s “cruelty”. The way his lips curled into a sneer, the way his hands made obscene little gestures. The way Rhaenys always deflates when his words make their way to her hearing. Brienne then understood, and now she despises him as deeply as she adores Papa.

He glances at Brienne and she narrows his eyes at him. Oh, if only she could wipe that look off his face…instead she stands taller and snorts at the way he startles and scurries off. She’s taller and larger than him. More and more often than not, she is glad for it.

“Brienne,” Rhaenys says. Brienne lets herself smile when she turns back to her. “We’re going to go play sharks and sailors, care to join us?”

They go to the Blackwater Rush with Oberyn and Jaime, and swim in their smallclothes with the sun on their backs and the air promising a quick return of spring. Daeron and Doryn are adorable, they alternate between squealing and cling to Brienne’s shoulders as she pretends to go further into the water, and begging her to throw them in. Their chaperones join them when Rhaenys splashes Oberyn in the face, and soon they are all splashing and yelling and slipping on the fish darting between their feet. When they are exhausted they drag themselves onto the riverbank and watch the clouds pass overhead. Allyria makes up the silliest stories behind each cloud, of tanners taking shepherdesses for brides and floods of apricot pudding washing away fabled cities. They all laugh and Rhaenys leans into Brienne’s side. Gods, has she ever been so happy before? To have friends who love and trust her, to be admired for her strength, to be friends with a real princess—it’s so amazing she can hardly believe it.

And, as many things in Brienne’s life, the happiness does not last.

* * *

It happens in the gardens, where the ivy hangs heavy over the stone walls and the endless flowers block their view of the narrow walkways. One moment Rhaenys is walking ahead of the Princessguard trying to catch her cat, and the next Harry is crowding her against a wall. Brienne steps forward to tell him off but Harry just smirks down at Rhaenys. “You’re quite a difficult lady to find, my princess. You’re not hiding from me, are you?”

Rhaenys narrows her eyes. “More like I’m sparing myself of a headache.”

Harry brushes an errant curl from Rhaenys’s cheek and Rhaenys goes shock still. Anxiety prickles up Brienne’s spine. Didn’t Rhaenys say that she hated to be touched? Brienne glances at the girls, and Ysilla mouths that she’s going to go find Ser Jaime. Floris steps forward and yells, “Leave my sister alone. Don’t you need to go get your ass beat on the training grounds again?”

“What’s all this?” Brienne huffs. The prince’s boys are all here. Joffrey sneers, “What would you know of sparring? At least _she_ can hold a sword, you can barely mount a pony.”

Floris whirls around on him and Myrcella yells at Joffrey to shut his stupid face, and Brienne sees what’s happening. With them all distracted and Joffrey egging on Patrek’s own bad behavior, Harry is going unnoticed as he murmurs something to Rhaenys. Monford and Theon do nothing to stop them, useless idiots they are, and neither Robb nor the three princes are here to reign them in. Brienne motions Margaery and Daenerys forward. “Sansa’s on her way with Allyria and Robb, they’ll help break it up too.” Then she goes to save her princess from that odious prat. As if Rhaenys would ever marry a no-good smarmy bastard like him!

Rhaenys’s face is rather pale and her eyes burn a fury Brienne shivers to behold. “Let me go,” she hisses, “or I’ll knock the rest of your teeth out.”

“Saucy, aren’t we? But I’ve learned a bit about Dornishwomen.” Harry wraps his hands around Rhaenys’s waist and pushes her against the wall. Rhaenys freezes. Brienne gropes for her sword before remembering it’s in the armory, gods damn her short-mindedness! “They say a woman like you is like a stallion. Wild and beautiful. All you need a firm guiding hand to—”

Whatever he meant to say, Brienne never learns. Instead Rhaenys rears back her arm and backhands him with a thunderclap. Harry drops like a sack of rice and Brienne herself startles to hear how loud and sharp the sound is. Rhaenys kicks Harry clear into Joffrey’s legs before she lunges at him. Brienne catches Rhaenys around the shoulders and holds her back. Then Rhaenys throws her head back and _shrieks_ and everyone flinches and panics. Harry himself blubbers because his cheekbone is broken and he’s bleeding heavily from his nose and Rhaenys—

Gods, but Rhaenys! She shrieks something wicked and seething in High Valyrian that Brienne doesn’t understand. But Brienne sees how Daenerys goes deathly pale and Floris muffles a gasp into her palms. Rhaenys thrashes and Brienne holds her close and pleads with her, “Please calm down! It’s alright! He’s not going to touch you again, I promise!” Rhaenys bends over as if she’s about to be sick and Brienne rubs her hand in slow circles on her back. Papa would do this whenever Brienne had a night terror, or when the waves beyond Tarth would tumble her back onto the sand and she could scarcely catch her breath without remembering Galladon’s bloated corpse. She repeats herself until the words are meaningless, until all the world goes hazy and all she can focus on is how Rhaenys’s heartbeat hammers against Brienne’s touch. Slowly, slowly, the beating slows, and Rhaenys stops trembling. Or is it Brienne trembling?

Shouting breaks her concentration. She looks up to find Jaime and Oberyn absolutely furious, with the rest of the princes’ and princess’ household gathered behind him. Aemon looks ready to split Harry into thirds with his sword. Aegon has unsettling wrath simmering in the way he clenches his fist on Aemon’s shoulder. And Harry, Harry’s _lying._ “She attacked me out of the blue, I swear it!” He’s lying! “Ask anyone, we were just talking—I was pressing my suit and then she was ready to tear my throat out!”

Jaime glares at the other boys. Monford and Theon step back and swear they have no idea what happened, only that Harry was close to Rhaenys and then she slapped him. Patrek wrings his hands and admits that maybe Harry was pressing his suit too strongly—Brienne shakes her head in disgust—and then Rhaenys attacked. But Joffrey? Oh, Joffrey, the little lying cunt, he says that Harry did nothing at all wrong. “I warned him that the princess is…known, for her violence. But he didn’t think she was capable of it.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Floris hisses and stomps forward. Daenerys is the one who must hold her back this time. “He had his hands all over her, Jaime! I saw it, we all did!” Joffrey hisses back that of course she’d defend her harpy of a sister and Myrcella physically twists his arm back so that he and Floris don’t start a fist fight. Oberyn brandishes his spear at Joffrey to finally silence him.

Jaime turns to Rhaenys and Brienne shudders to see his face. Was he the one who taught Rhaenys how to hold so much rage in her eyes? Was it the other way around? Brienne helps Rhaenys to her feet, and she seems shorter in a way. Almost diminished, from the way she wraps her arms around her stomach and how her head bows. Brienne hates to see it.

“Rhae?” Ser Jaime’s voice is soft as spring. “What happened?”

“…you believe me, right?” Rhaenys’s own voice is quiet as the hour of the wolf. “You won’t think me to be a liar?”

“Of course not, my lady princess.”

“And you’ll protect me?”

Jaime rests his hand on his sword. “Always,” he swears, and Brienne shivers. He is a true knight. She prays—she hopes one day she’ll be as good a knight to Rhaenys as he is.

Oberyn comes to gently tilt up Rhaenys’s chin, and there’s such overwhelming love and trust in his gaze, Brienne is so grateful for it. Rhaenys explains herself simply, that Harry laid hands upon her and insinuated that as a Dornishwoman she needed to be broken in like a stallion. Aemon snarls and breaks Harry’s other cheekbone. Oberyn then tsks and drags Harry up by the collar. “Nephew, will you suffer to have this brat in your household? Prince Aemon?”

“Nay,” Aegon glares down at Harry with grim finality. All of the boys shift with shame and terror, as Aegon is always a smiling gentle prince. How quickly everyone forgets he’s cut from the same cloth as his sister and brother. “Throw back in whichever backwater vale he came from. Lady Ysilla, please inform your father that if he has any of your brothers to spare, we’d gladly welcome them.” Harry opens his mouth to protest. Then Jaime hits him on the back of the head with his sword pommel and that is that.

Soon the whole castle is abuzz with Harry’s ignoble departure. Less of a departure and more of being thrown out on his ear to land in the filth outside the castle gates! The king was incandescent with rage and only the queen’s murmuring kept him from sending Harry to the Wall. Brienne privately thinks Harry deserves it if only because if he treats Rhaenys the same as he does other ladies, who is to say all of his bastards were happily got? Joffrey stays if only because he committed no crime. “For now, anyway.” Margaery grips her cup of tea like clenching a dual-handed sword. “He’s entirely rotten. I have no idea how you two are related, Cella.”

Myrcella stares out the window where dark clouds gather on the horizon, matched by the dark expression gathering on her brow. “He’s always been a horrid little beast. Mother coddles him and Father is always away. If only Tommen were older, then maybe today wouldn’t have happened.”

Allyria looks up from where she’s stress-embroidering the world’s longest scarf. “Don’t blame yourself, blame Harry and all the other fools who think to lay hands on a maid just because they feel entitled to them.” She glances at the door, where Sansa is furiously whispering with Robb about how he and the other boys need to shape up their household unless they want Sansa to beat them all to death with her fists. Everyone is tense and unhappy, as Rhaenys left the gardens with her siblings and uncles. They have yet to return.

Daenerys is silent as she reads from a large tome about the history of Braavos. But when Robb leaves and Sansa throws herself onto her bed, she sets the tome aside and folds her hands neatly in her lap. “Who here understands High Valyrian?” None of them do. Daenerys frowns, and for a brief moment Brienne can see the heavy strain in her shoulders, the way her nails dig into her white palms, the quiet despair in her eyes. Then she adjusts herself and the moment is gone. “What I tell you can’t leave this room. Tell no one, not even her.”

Daenerys explains what Rhaenys said. That she screamed how she would kill the next man who laid hands upon her as others have done before, that she would skin him alive with her teeth and feed back to him his privy parts. That she’s done it before and will do it again right there in those gardens. Sansa and Ysilla gasp; Allyria turns from golden brown to off-white; Margaery sinks into a chair; Myrcella holds her hands over her mouth, and Brienne—

Brienne would gladly track down all of those others who dared hurt her princess and cut them to pieces.

She tells them all so, and Daenerys nods. She looks just like Queen Rhaella, marble and Valyrian steel, and clenches her fists tight. “Euron Greyjoy is still alive. Theon told me that he would abuse him and Asha in the most wretched ways, that’s why Asha sailed across the Sunset Sea and never came back. He agrees that Greyjoy must die, and so Aegon and Aemon and Floris, and so do my royal brother and good sisters. And I think Rhaenys is going to kill him some day.”

“…does this mean the rumors are true?” Myrcella turns over a drop spindle in her hands like turning over her thoughts. “Mother said that Rhaenys was the Butcher and killed a thousand men to bathe in their blood.”

“Papa says that she did what was right, since the Lands of the Long Summer crawl with monsters and they’re only fit for slaughter.” Ysilla turns to the rest. “And what Daenerys said, about this happening to her before—oh gods, did Greyjoy—”

“It’s a certainty.” Margaery curls into a ball on her chair. “She didn’t deserve any of this, how awful.” And they are silent for a moment because it’s true and what do they say to that? Then Margaery shakes her head and sits up straight. “Well fuck him then, him and all those others. If Rhaenys wants her justice I say we help her.”

Sansa asks, “How do we do that? We can’t fight Greyjoy, Rhaenys and Brienne can but certainly not me.”

“We become her protection in other ways.” Floris enters the room. Brienne shivers to see such determination on her face; is this the face she made when she demanded ships to sail to Yunkai? “You heard that rumor how she seduced Harry and then faked crocodile tears when she was discovered? There’s rats in this place and if people start thinking Rhaenys is some crazy killer who will eat their babies and commit kinslaying and kingslaying, I think the king will have her sent to a motherhouse for her own safety.”

Margaery slowly nods. “We counteract their rumors with our truths then.”

Ysilla perks up. “Rhaenys goes out to give alms every other day with Princess Elia, let’s all go and help. And there’s a bard that’s in my family’s service here, I’ll have him compose songs about her.”

“Have the bard go visit the taverns in the city and let it spread.” Myrcella looks excited in a way that spells doom for Rhaenys’s enemies. “I’ll ask my lord grandfather the Hand if there’s a way to go on day trips around the Crownlands and beyond to increase the goodwill. What my lord grandfather wants, the kings signs off on.”

“And I’ll have the boys whipped into shape with Aegon and Aemon, they’ll circle around our efforts.” Sansa beams sweetly. “We’ll root out the rats and then Brienne can beat them half to death with her sword and the other half through shaming.”

Brienne feels herself thrum with energy. The Princessguard will fix what those will ill-intent are breaking—she will not let anyone else hurt her princess! She’ll write to Papa, as he’s on good terms with the Baratheons, maybe they can help. Little Lady Shireen is too young to come to court but Lord Renly is of age on a journey through the Free Cities, maybe he can come and aid them on the boys’ side of things…it’ll work out. She will see it done.

Allyria murmurs to Brienne beneath the clamor of their plotting, “Go find Rhaenys. I imagine she’s upset, I would be.”

Brienne checks Rhaenys’s rooms, her brothers’ rooms, even her mother’s rooms, before she finds her in Varys’s rooms of all places. Varys bows his way out, warning Brienne that Rhaenys blames herself. Rhaenys has her knees drawn up to her chin and looks out the window towards that stormy horizon. Brienne hesitates, then sits down next to her on the day bed. They are quiet for a while, with only the sound of the sea far beneath them. “They think I’m crazy,” Rhaenys says with no preamble, with a voice as mild as discussing the weather. Brienne flinches. “Varys told me about the rumors that are spreading so I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s ok, I knew they would. I’m not a very good princess.”

“…well,” and Brienne huffs because she has so many words to say to _that_ but they’re all tangled in her chest and she’d rather take a sword to everyone who dares say such cruel things! So many rats, not enough time! “I’m hardly even a lady by this point, but I think you’re just as fine a princess as Daenerys. I swear it.”

“You think so?” And Rhaenys’s eyes are soft in the evening light, like the sun setting over the sea.

“You are kind to me when few others are, and you help the smallfolk when most lords just ignore them. Everyone who doesn’t believe otherwise can take it up with the Princessguard. And Harry—he was a bastard and deserved it.” Brienne pauses. “Well, not an actual bastard. Aurane Waters is much nicer than him.”

Rhaenys giggles into her knee, and the sound fills Brienne with relief. Rhaenys lets her legs swing down over the edge of the day bed and leans against her side. It’s always a bit shocking how Rhaenys seems so petite compared to her, even with her height, and even knowing what she can do. Brienne shifts so they’re more comfortable. It’s the most she can do, that and keep her sword and shield close to defend her princess.

For a while they just watch the sea outside the window. It’s nice, the quiet and the softness and Rhaenys’s steady presence against her. Then Rhaenys murmurs, “Thank you for stopping me. You shouldn’t have had to, so I’m sorry.”

“We are friends, right? And friends help each other.”

Rhaenys smiles and Brienne flushes again. She sounds so dumb, but it’s true. Rhaenys tilts her head. “You said you didn’t have many friends on Tarth, right?” Brienne nods. “And I’m guessing you’ve never kissed a friend either? Or a pet, or a boy?”

“Only my father,” and they both muffle their laughter at the image it brings: Brienne is a head taller than Papa and must lean down to kiss his cheek.

Then Rhaenys stops. She stares at Brienne and Brienne feels pinned beneath her gaze. Then she leans up and kisses her cheek. Her lips are soft. For a moment all Brienne can think of is that softness. Rhaenys says, “There, we’ve fixed that then.” Brienne shivers, and Rhaenys sighs. “And perhaps another one too for practice once you’ve wrapped a boy around your finger, it shouldn’t be too long. But if we’re to practice that, then we ought to practice something else.”

“Something else?”

“You’re a very pretty girl,” Brienne’s heart skips to heart it, “and pretty girls have a bad history of being preyed upon. Even your sword can’t be with you all the time.” Her heart then breaks from the sad resolve in Rhaenys’s eyes. “For your sake you ought to practice what to do when someone wants a kiss, and won’t take no for an answer.”

Brienne tilts her head. She asks how she would do that. Rhaenys smiles, and twilight glints on Brienne’s sword, on the stiletto pins on the vanity, on Rhaenys’s pretty white teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry: *breathes*
> 
> Everyone else: SHUT THE HELL YOUR MOUTH
> 
> This chapter focused a lot on how nobly born teenage girls function in court, how teenage girls beef with teenage boys when strict gender roles keep them from having healthy social interaction, and how sweet awkward baby Brienne is Best Girl. Brienne is in the house!! My darling knight in shining armor, the poor dear is 16 and in the midst of some heavy self-conscious body issues. But thankfully she’s already made a few friends in court which is good for her and those friends. Rhaenys certainly is glad to have her around!
> 
> Before anyone asks: it simply wrote itself! But considering Rhaenys’s previous crush on her friend Bellora, and how both Rhaenys and Brienne are the same age and already friends and Brienne is truly one of the Best Girls of the series and I’m a sucker for fair knight/wily princess dynamics…I’ll see where the story goes. Perhaps Brienne can have a lovely feral princess girlfriend as a treat lmao


	5. A Folly Sweet as Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the timeline for this one, it spans about 2 years from when Sansa is 14 to 16. And now we’re finally getting into the dark!Jon/Sansa!

Sansa double knocks on the large wooden doors, waits three seconds, then yells, “Be decent!” Then she holds a fan in front of her face and barrels in before Theon can stop her.

She rolls her eyes to hear the boys stumbling and stuttering and throwing on their clothes. They knew they all had dancing lessons half an hour after their sparring lessons were finished, the maesters themselves told the boys. How are they not ready yet?! “I’m writing Mother that your sense of time has been entirely destroyed,” she tells Robb. Robb mutters something probably rude as he struggles to button his sleeves. Sansa sighs and deigns to help him. “You’re lucky I came early, you all have five minutes and you know that the Princess Daenerys is cross whenever we’re late.”

“I’m surprised you can tell what she is and isn’t.” Patrek’s hair is a mess and must rely on Monford to pull it back in some semblance of court-appropriate style. “Sometimes I wonder if she’s some sort of fae queen come to judge us all for the Seven.”

“Come on, Dany isn’t that scary.” Aegon gives Sansa a sheepish smile and she snorts; he looks exactly like Bran whenever Mother would catch him trying to climb the walls. She wonders if Margaery gets the same from him, then stifles a giggle. More likely she’d have him out fifteen minutes early by the ear, and he’d enjoy it! “Forgive me, Lady Sansa. I’m the reason they’re all late, I held them back in practice. We’ll just be another moment.”

Aemon across the room motions at a huffy Joffrey and mouths “whiny prat”. No doubt Joffrey got his lordly behind whipped and had a stromp about it with Aegon saving his face. Sansa winks and tries not to stare at Aemon’s shoulders as he pulls on his doublet over his shirt. Both him and his brother are in some sort of growth spurt—all of them really, Sansa hopes she’ll get a bit taller and fuller by the year’s end too—and his shoulders in particular are filling out quite nicely.

He’ll definitely need them today. Rhaenys will be teaching them a dance she learned in far Essos, something called a “waltz” that sounds rather scandalous. Sansa loves all the dances the dancing mistress teaches them, since at Winterfell there wasn’t much instruction in dancing other than to not step on your partner’s toes and try not to be too drunk. But here in Kings Landing they put on a court ballet every year for Daenerys’s birthday as well as for the seasonal holidays and festivals. To twirl around the dancing floor in shimmering silk with light catching in the flowers and jewels pinned to her hair—oh, Sansa can already imagine how fun it will be! Definitely something to write home about!

She finishes helping Robb, and also helps Theon with his doublet ties since his hands are shaky. His hands have always been shaky, from what Robb tells her in secret. Ever since that awful Greyjoy monster slammed his head against a wall as a child and stomped on his hands…how can someone so evil exist? Rhaenys, Theon, Theon’s sister Asha who sailed away, who knows how many more people. She shakes her head and banishes the bad thoughts. No, today will be fun, and after dancing Sansa will read Arya’s letter and send her back the dagger Robb and Sansa had commissioned for her nameday, and then she’ll help Rhaenys practice blackwork embroidery. Today will be fun and Sansa will make it so.

Joffrey whines, “I don’t want to dance with the stupid Princessguard today, especially when it’s probably going to be embarrassing—”

“Then don’t come, Myrcella is enough for the two of you.” Sansa adjusts her jaunty little hat that Myrcella herself gave her. Joffrey gapes at her and Sansa flounces off. Today shall be even better now.

They finally dress to Sansa’s standard, and she half-drags Robb down the corridor to the hall where they practice. “You ought to practice,” she teases him. “I heard something about you and Lady Wylla Wanderly?” With Wynafryd Manderly to be the next Lady of White Harbor after her father and grandfather, Wylla is quite the catch. She’s at Winterfell now with Arya and Lyanna Mormont since they’re of similar ages and Sansa’s glad for it. If she gets to have so many new friends, then Arya ought to too.

Robb blushes ever so slightly and Sansa grins. Then he pinches her cheek and grins right back. “And you? I don’t suppose you’ll be Lady Sansa Lefford any time soon?” He laughs at the look of horror on her face. Then she checks to make sure no one else is listening, then murmurs, “I’ll ask Father about Wylla soon. But when should we write about Allyria?”

Sansa squeezes his arm. Allyria, dear Allyria. That’s a letter Sansa isn’t sure if they _can_ write. “Let’s talk with Allyria later about it. For now, let’s enjoy ourselves.”

Rhaenys stands before them all with a nervous smile and a nervous twist to her hands. Sansa glances at Brienne who twists her lips down and at Myrcella who half shrugs. Nervousness is better than melancholy, she supposes. Ever since the incident with Harry, Rhaenys has been quiet and pale with sadness. Not even her sessions with her private maester from Oldtown seem to be working. And Princess Elia has gone to Dorne with prince Oberyn to be with Prince Doran in his last days so Rhaenys’s mother isn’t here to lift her spirits. Yesterday she didn’t even get out of bed until Floris dragged her out and half-threw her into a bathtub. Floris now is smiling at Rhaenys like how a parent smiles at their child learning how to walk. It’s such an odd sight that Sansa could almost laugh if it weren’t so disheartening.

Their dancing instructor Mistress Gayle nods at Rhaenys, who then says with slight hesitation, “During my time in Essos, I learned a dance called a waltz. It started from the smallfolk of the Forests of Qohor, but it’s now—well it was—the dance of nobility in Elyria and other higher class cities. So if you don’t mind I’d like to show you?”

“Of course,” and Aegon’s voice is firm like ironwood. He smiles at Rhaenys, before reaching out and grabbing Margaery’s hand. “Under your wise instruction I bet we’ll be masters of it by next week.” Rhaenys snorts and Sansa smiles to herself; just as he planned. How dour and dreamy King Rhaegar had such a charming son, she’ll never know. It must be from Elia’s side of the family—just look at Floris!

Rhaenys uses herself and a broomstick as her example of waltzing. It truly is quite scandalous from how close the partners are, they’re practically one and the same for so much of the dance! Sansa shakes herself and focuses on the movements. There’s a triple beat to her movements, and her shoulders move smoothly and parallel to the floor. In fact, she seems to glide with long flowing steps, forward then left then back and right. She shows them how to turn in the subtle twists and how the lady ought to be doing all the fun work unless the gentlemen wishes to show off. They practice this, first by themselves and then paired up—Sansa sticks to Allyria since the other girls avoid the boys like the plague—and Sansa loves the smooth flow.

Most of all, Sansa loves how there’s twirls, and dips, and being raised high. Just like a dance out of a song. Sansa lifts and twirls Floris around to make her laugh, and Robb does the same to Allyria. Ysilla begs to be lifted by Brienne, who looks absolutely mortified until Rhaenys remarks that body strength is required to be an excellent dancer. Then they’re all twirling and lifting and dipping each other.

Aegon boldly bows over Ysilla’s hand and asks permission to spin her around the room until she vomits. Ysilla takes him up on his dare and they become a whirlwind of yelling and laughing. Patrek and Margaery pair up to stomp-march dramatically, and Monford dips Floris all the way to the ground until her hat falls off. Rhaenys finally convinces Brienne to dance with her, even though she has to dance on her tiptoes, and they spin around together with Rhaenys’s skirt whacking people dramatically and possibly intentionally. Even Daenerys laughs when Quentyn dances with her so quickly they are a blur of silver-gold hair and Martell orange silk. Sansa clutches her stomach from how much she laughs. Waltzing is so much fun! She hopes everyone at court will do this!

She catches Aemon’s eye and boldly raises her eyebrows. He, dressed in all black like a giant raven, stands out from all the swirling colors of everyone’s skirts and surcoats. But there’s a bit of mischief in his Stark grey eyes, and he holds out his hand. Sansa takes it, and he pulls her close to his chest. He smells of sandalwood and pine trees. She prays she doesn’t blush too red, she and Brienne have the same issue where they look like sad overripe pumpkins.

He starts off slow with a firm hand on her lower back. Forward, and left, and back, and right, and spin. Sansa spins out, careful not to hit anyone with her skirts. For a moment she sees how the morning light catches on the silk, on her hair escaping her braid. Then she spins back into his arms and has to remind herself to keep breathing. Sansa feels all the callouses on his hands, he certainly gives his all on the sparring grounds. And when he lifts her up by her waist for a spin, his hands are so warm it’s like a band of warmth all around her middle. Warm and strong and secure. Aemon sets her down and Sansa exhales a breath she didn’t know she took. “You’re a natural at this.”

He smiles. “Only because my partner is so good.”

Sansa decides then and there that this is the most fun she’s had in a long time.

* * *

“That was wonderful,” Margaery declares when they return to their rooms entirely out of breath and in need of a bath with extra lavender oil. Sansa for certain needs new shoes, and poor Ysilla is nauseous; even poorer Aegon threw up out a window at the end of their whirlwind. Margaery throws herself into a chair and sprawls with her legs over one of the arms. “Rhaenys, you’re an absolute genius. Please tell us you have more dances.”

Rhaenys smiles, as precious as the first day of spring. She ducks her head and murmurs, “I have a few more I remember. That one was Erzsebet’s favorite dance, she would’ve taught it better I’m sure…well, I’m a mess, let me summon Melly.”

Sansa muses to herself about this Erzsebet as Melly, Rhaenys’s favorite maid and quite possibly the only trustworthy maid in the Red Keep that Margaery didn’t bring from the Reach, hunts down bath tubs for them all. She doesn’t pry much into Rhaenys’s history as she knows it will make Rhaenys sad and what kind of friend would she be to make her friend sad? But from the way Rhaenys’s eyes flickered down and the way her voice grew so soft…Erzsebet is dead, isn’t she? And the Bellora who taught Rhaenys how to tie ribbons into hair, and the Xhen who gave Rhaenys the dulcimer, and everyone else Rhaenys mentions once and never again.

Gods, how awful.

The friends, Greyjoy, Harry in the gardens…and Sansa doesn’t quite understand what the truth about the tales of the Butcher are, but she remembers how close Rhaenys was to really hurting Harry. How she had to hurt people in Essos who were going to kill her and worse. Sansa can’t imagine how this must weigh on her shoulders, and helpless despair fills her heart. Whenever she had troubles in Winterfell, she would go to Mother or Septa Mordane or sometimes Father. They could usually fix her problems.

But she’s not at Winterfell anymore. She’s in Kings Landing, she’s supposed to be the person who fixes problems now. But who can she talk to about this? All of the Princessguard understand Rhaenys’s pains, but they’re just girls, just maidens with no real power—what are they to do about it? The boys can do little more than they can, even Aegon and Aemon aren’t adults yet. Elia is gone to Dorne, and her husband Ser Baelor has returned to Oldtown to settle something about a red algae tide sprouting in the Sunset Sea and their bannermen being upset about it. Sansa doesn’t know Princess Arianne or Prince Viserys and she can’t bother them while the Prince of Dorne is dying; the idea of disturbing them, making a fool of herself and wasting their time, curdles her stomach. Maybe Rhaegar? But talking to him also makes her too nervous to speak.

She curses herself. It’s so easy for her to lead the boys around and to have wonderful plots with her friends, but talking to adults outside of her family about such serious matters is impossible. When she was younger she used to speak to anyone about her troubles, since Robb did the same and she’s his twin. But Septa Mordane was harsh in her lessons about how godly and good girls ought to be seen and not heard. Sansa always wanted to please her and her parents. To be as good as Robb even thought she was too Southron by half for Winterfell. But now she’s tongue-tied when her friend needs her! Sansa bites her lip and crosses her arms over her chest. How stupid of her! How can she fix this? Who should she talk to?

Aunt Lyanna then? Sansa slowly nods to herself. Father and Lyanna don’t talk that often, since Father is so busy as Warden of the North, and Mother is similarly busy being Lady of Winterfell, and Lyanna must be busy as queen. But Lyanna is a Stark, and her parents always told her to stick with the pack as the lone wolf dies. It’s always been easier to talk to her family anyway. She heads towards Lyanna’s chambers. And Lyanna is Rhaenys’s stepmother, Aemon’s mother—surely she will know what to do!

When the doors to her aunt’s antechambers open, Sansa sags ever so slightly with relief. The air is rich with the scents of pine and wood smoke, and all the wood is ironwood and the tapestries of the North. Sansa aches for home. She imagines showing all her friends around Winterfell and White Harbor, teaching them how to make proper snow castles…Allyria has never seen snow before, how unfair…

“My dear niece,” Lyanna says. She offers the seat aside her to Sansa and Sansa sits with a curtsy. “I thought all of you young ladies were out enjoying the air?”

“We do. But,” and Sansa curses herself for being tongue-tied. It’s so easy to talk with her friends, with her siblings, so why not Lyanna? Are they not family? She tries again and lets herself vent all of her worries. “Lately I’ve been worried about the Princess Rhaenys. She’s been melancholy ever since the incident in the garden and we’re all worried, really. Just today she wouldn’t eat because she says her heart is too heavy and I don’t know what to do. I wanted to know what her life was like before she was stolen away, so I—so we all know how to help.”

Lyanna nods. Her gray eyes flash with vivid emotions Sansa can’t place, until they settle on quiet sorrow. She sighs and looks at the mantle where a thick oil painting in the Volantene style hangs. She, Rhaegar, Aegon, Aemon and Rhaenys all stand in properly formal attire and the crown jewels, and they all look so much younger. “Do you see that painting, dear niece? It was painted when the princess was eleven. If only we had known just a few moons later she would be taken from us all…oh, can you keep a secret, Sansa?”

“Of course.”

Lyanna leans in and so does Sansa. “My dear stepdaughter has always been subject to melancholy and sometimes even anger. It’s in her nature, as many princesses before her. Indeed, her lord father and I have always worried for her, that she may go the way of Princess Aelora.”

Sansa shivers. Poor Princess Aelora, who went mad after her brother-husband’s death at her own hands and her subsequent assault by the Rat the Hawk, and the Pig. Sansa’s hands tremble. Aelora killed herself by throwing herself into the sea. And Rhaenys—she has suffered just like Aelora, hasn’t she? She licks her lips and shakes her head. “Her story is a tragedy. But Princess Rhaenys will be alright. Princess Aelora was born with an unstable heart, and Princess Rhaenys is kind and good and sweet.”

“I’m afraid a heart can be as sweet as spring and still teeter with madness.” Lyanna stands up and retrieves a beautiful porcelain figurine of a she-wolf. Father had similar ones commissioned for her and Arya when they were younger and Sansa knows how precious and fragile they are. “When she was just a little girl, she beat Aemon with her fists because she didn’t want to play a game. Then when we tried to stop her, she took this and threw it against the wall. Her poor mother had to have it repaired and we never spoke of it but—well, Aerion Brightflame was the same way. And so was Aerys the Mad. When a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin, and I worry so much for hers.”

Sansa gasps. That’s—absolutely not! That cannot be true! The memory of Rhaenys thrashing in Brienne’s arms in the gardens makes her throat swell up and her ears burn. “Princess Rhaenys is not mad, Aunt! I swear it!” Her stomach curdles like sour milk left under the Dornish sun.

Lyanna shushes her and pats her hands. “And I believe you, I do. I’ve seen how she is with you and my heart is so glad for it, to know that she has such a trustworthy and good friend.” Sansa slowly calms down. And Lyanna smiles. “Can you continue to be her friend? Just listen to her, be there for her even when she’s sad or angry. And whenever you worry again, just come tell me and I’ll have her lord father fix it.”

“He’ll be able to fix it?”

“He is the king and her father. We love her and we’ll do whatever it takes to make sure something like what happened in the gardens doesn’t happen again. You said her heart is too heavy to eat? I’ll have the cooks research the diets of Further Essos, perhaps she is homesick in a way. It’ll all be well.” Lyanna sighs and kisses her forehead. “Poor girls, you have so many burdens. Go enjoy your time in the sun.”

Sansa leaves with renewed purpose. Lyanna is right, she and the king can do what Sansa can’t. They can make sure awful boys like Harry stay far away, and have the cooks make a mountain of treats, and hire an army of maesters help bring back her memories. And all Sansa has to do is be Rhaenys’s friend, and be there for her. She finds the whole household skipping stones by the Blackwater Rush and she sees how Brienne sticks to Rhaenys’s side. Sansa nods at her with purpose in her eyes, and Brienne nods back.

They’ll protect her from those who would tear her down and will keep up her spirits. Sansa will never forgive herself if they don’t!

* * *

“And it’s true that Lord Tyrion’s married a whore?”

“A wheelwright’s daughter is what I heard. They married in secret in the Westerlands when they were both only thirteen. Then the Lord Hand had her sent away as a whore. Lord Tyrion found her again in Braavos and remarried in the sept there.”

“How romantic! I didn’t know dwarves could feel so much love.”

The other ladies at court whisper about Lord Tyrion’s return to Westeros. Sansa raises her eyebrows at Rhaenys and Daenerys on the dais; Rhaenys looks wildly disapproving about the constant talk against whores and dwarves, and Daenerys has her hands clasped over her front, a sure sign of her annoyance. Allyria has her own hands over Floris’s ears since the little fox absorbs curse words like a sponge in soap. “I don’t get the fuss,” Ysilla murmurs to Sansa. “We all know that the Hand has a stick up where gold doesn’t shine when it comes to Lord Tyrion. I’m surprised he’d let him have an announcement at all.”

“That’s not true!” Myrcella looks around quickly, then whispers, “He also has a stick about Uncle Jaime naming his baby boy Loreon instead of Tywin. Image and all that.” Allyria snickers and Sansa herself must keep from laughing. Ser Jaime and his wife Lynesse just had their children a fortnight past—twins, Loreon and Leyla. Floris and Myrcella were beside themselves with excitement, and Rhaenys was both happy for Jaime and terrified that she would have to hold the babes and end up dropping them. They all then practices holding babes made of cloth and pretended that their bundles were wise philosophers from millennia ago.

Sansa sighs and shakes her head. In Winterfell she never got to play such fun games, as her only companions were Jeyne and Beth and they had their own duties during the day. And even though she misses the North and hates how vicious people can be at court—despite all that, she hopes these fun days will never end.

Finally the herald announces Tyrion into the Great Hall with all the pomp required. Sansa catches Aemon rolling his eyes from his position next to Aegon, and she mimics yawning. He grins at her and pretends to faint. Aegon must pinch him to regain his attention and Sansa hides her laughter into Brienne’s shoulder. Rhaenys just looks at them all snorts; she must find this all boring after years of not having to deal with courtly nonsense!

Tyrion comes forward with a lovely young woman holding his hand despite their wild height difference. He has the mismatched green and black eyes and jutting forehead that the other ladies tittered about all day, ‘tis true. But Sansa doesn’t think he’s all that ugly. There’s a kindness to his face that neither Lord Tywin or Lady Cersei have, and a cheekiness she has learned to fear from Robb’s pranking. And the way he glances up at the lady with such love in his eyes, it makes him glow in the way Father glows when he looks at Mother. Sansa can’t imagine a handsomer thing for a man to have. “Your Graces, Your Highnesses, Lord Hand, I am ever so delighted to see that the royal family is whole once again and restored.” Tyrion has a very charming voice too. She hopes the mean old ladies talking so poorly of him have to eat their words. “May I introduce to you my darling wife Tysha. Hopefully within the next few moons our family will also be even fuller than it is now.”

Tysha rests a delicate hand over her stomach and blinks up at Tywin with her big blue eyes. Tywin looks ready to burst a blood vessel. Judging from the way Ysilla hides her smirk behind her fan and how Margaery gives Tysha the sweetest of smiles and how even Daenerys gives Tywin a side eye, Sansa doubts that Tywin shall remain Hand when Aegon is king. It’s surprisingly to her how much her friends don’t like him, but when she thinks of how his arrogant, brutal reputation doesn’t win him any favors in the North…perhaps they’ve witnessed a bit of the man who made it rain over Castamere. Sansa hopes she never will.

Rhaegar nods his head at Tyrion. “It is always a pleasure to greet Westerosi returned to our shores.”

“I’ve brought a gift as well for the Princess Rhaenys.” He turns and motions for a group of musicians to step forward from his retinue. They are dressed in the bright, colorful way that Braavosi people do, at least in the paintings Sansa’s seen. But their features are a mix, some have almond shaped eyes and some have hair as coily as a spring cloud and their skin ranges from even paler than Sansa’s to as dark as a Summer Islander. Rhaenys’s eyes widen, and then her whole face lights up like the sun rising. It’s been a while since Sansa has seen Rhaenys truly happy and she is glad for it. Tyrion explains, “I’ve met the most talented troupe of musicians who escaped the horrors of the Bay of Slaves, in no small part thanks to our princess fighting off their slavers. And if it suits Your Graces, they would play for us.”

It suits them well, and in a short amount of time the Great Hall is cleared for dancing. Sansa recognizes a few of the instruments they have. Rhaenys says the large stringed instrument a woman plays is a Astapori dulcimer similar to her Yi-Tish one, and that the long oval instrument in a man’s lap is a Meereenese darbuka drum. Other instruments seem to be fantastic versions of lutes and violas, and when they all play together—Sansa sighs and her heart soars. The drums thrum deep in her belly and the strings make her want to spin around. Sansa prays to the Seven to bless Rhaenys for saving the musicians from a fate worse than death and paving the way to such music.

Rhaenys sighs and says, “I haven’t heard this song in forever. And it’s a song meant for singing.” Sansa startles; they only sing during classes and she’ll be alone! Sansa can’t imagine being so exposed! But as soon as Rhaegar lets her, Rhaenys skips into the middle of the dance floor and sings. It’s a beautiful liquid language Sansa doesn’t understand. It flows over her, Rhaenys has such a sweet delicate voice just like stained glass. And while Sansa doesn’t understand but _understands._ It’s of joy, of being free—it’s the song of those who escaped from the Doom. Brienne sighs and Sansa sighs too, enveloped in the lovely sound.

Sansa catches Aemon staring in awe and wonders if he would stare at her if she knew how to sing like that. Or maybe he would dance with her while Rhaenys sang—ooh, she should ask Rhaenys to play music once they’ve mastered the waltz. Sansa then catches how the rest of court watches her. Tyrion is grinning and clapping, while Tywin storms off in a huff. Ah, this must be exactly what Tyrion wanted, to dig right under his father’s skin and have a princess’s favor for it. Aemon and Aegon talk with each other about how Rhaenys has them totally beat at sparring and at singing. Floris hears this, then mentions to Brienne that she ought to take up singing too so she and Rhaenys can be partners on and off the training fields and poor Brienne turns bright red. Sansa giggles; Brienne is always so shy and uncertain around Rhaenys, even when it’s obvious Rhaenys loves her company.

Sansa looks at the others. The king and queen watch with amusement, until Rhaegar twists his mouth into a sour pucker when they overhear a courtier mention how Rhaenys has grown into a lovely woman. Brienne’s own eyes narrow, and Sansa checks around the room. Looks of appreciation, impressment…and lust. Lust, disdain, greed, hate—she shivers and clutches Allyria’s wrist.

Rhaenys is sixteen, and they’ll be sixteen soon, and strange men look at them like how they look at Rhaenys. Margaery murmurs, “We’ll have to ward away many more suitors now, she doesn’t make it easy for us,” and Sansa’s stomach twists. Marriage. They’ll all be married one day, and what if they marry a man like Harry? Like the men who stole Rhaenys away and her memories too? She fears Rhaenys will be chained to someone cruel and she to someone loveless. They all can’t be Margaery with a politically sound love match, can they?

Sansa ponders this later that day, when the musicians are gone and the Princessguard are milling around the gardens in search of Sansa’s hair comb. She is daughter of the Lord of Winterfell, sister to the heir, so she probably will marry North or perhaps into the Riverlands. She can hardly stand most of the boys in the North, and judging from the boys’ household she has low hopes for any other boy… “It’s hopeless,” she sighs. “We’ve been looking for an hour, I give up.”

“Give up on what, Lady Sansa?” Aegon and Aemon peek their heads around a corner, Aegon hiding a sack of oranges under his cloak. He winks and passes out an orange to them all. “I hope you too aren’t looking to pillage the orchards, we’ve made short work of them.”

“That would be easer than this.” Sansa describes her little comb, made of silver with aquamarine forget-me-nots mounted above the sloping teeth. “I’ll have to do without, but it was a nameday gift. I shouldn’t have brought it out here at all, and we have classes soon.”

“I may have seen it, I’ll escort you.” Aemon tilts his head at Rhaenys. “Will that be alright?”

Rhaenys nods and waves them off. The next lesson is all about embroidery anyway, and Floris chirps that no one is as skilled as Sansa. Sansa blushes and her friends go their separate ways. Then she links her arm into Aemon’s and they set off between the rows of lilies and orchids.

Sansa’s focus wanders away from her comb. The sun is setting and casts lovely golden-orange over the flowers, and the early spring butterflies catch the sunlight on their gossamer wings. She can smell the late winter early spring camellias as the red spring ones ripen and the pink winter ones fall to the grass at their feet. Sansa inhales deeply and lets her eyes close. Not even the glass gardens in Winterfell can compare, and one day all the camellias will be gone and the hydrangeas will come in their place. Perhaps she can find a way to bottle this twilight and keep it with her always. “Does something trouble you, my lady?” Sansa startles and looks up at Aemon. His dark grey eyes, usually so serious and stony, are soft in the evening glow. “Your thoughts seem a thousand miles away.”

She tries to dissemble, since her worries are petty compared to his duties, but Aemon presses with all the pressure of butterfly wings on her cheek. And that gentle pressure is all she needs. “It is the fate of women to marry to advance our families, and out duty. But I’m worried—oh, what if I marry someone who treats me poorly? They might just see me for my name and dowry and face, but what about me?”

Sansa struggles to express her wants into coherent sentences. “I’m—I’ve always been the odd one out in Winterfell. Too Southron by half. Robb is a perfect heir and boy, and Arya is as Northern as the Mormont ladies, and little Bran and Rickon are going to be good as Robb as one day. But I can’t hold a dagger even with Rhaenys teaching me, and all I ever did back home was sew and pray and curtsy, and Arya’s always been better at arithmetic…” Her voice dims. “I’ve seen the ladies here at court and I’m just one in the bunch. Silly Sansa Stark. What if my husband doesn’t want that? I doubt there’s anything special about me at all.”

Aemon shakes his head. “You don’t see yourself like we all do, my lady. You’re the only one who helps keep us all in line, like a high lady ought. And you are kind, and sincere. You’ve seen how rare that is here in this pit of vipers. I doubt there’s anyone much like you in all of Westeros.”

Sansa hides her cheek when it blushes hot. “That’s very kind of you to say, my prince.”

“It’s the truth.” He glances down. “Truth is hard to find here as well. Or trust. Sometimes I can hardly breathe because everyone here has some sort of plot, and those plots always point sharp at my family. At Rhaenys, at Aegon, at my parents—I wonder if anyone here really trusts each other, except for you and the Princessguard, of course.”

Sansa nods and sighs. “Look at what Aegon and Marg have, they trust each other. They love and respect each other. I want something like that, someone to talk to and walk in the gardens with.” She tapers off and blushes faintly because there’s a wide gulf between walking in the gardens with Aemon right now and walking down the sept, isn’t there?

Aemon doesn’t hear her misstep; he nods and squeezes her hand. “I also know my marriage will be arranged for me. Some lovely lady, or some Essosi contessa, and I may not even meet them before we marry. Aegon doesn’t know how lucky he is, considering everything that’s happened in our families.”

Ah, the destruction of Rhaegar and Elia’s marriage. Sansa hesitates, then quietly asks, “How do you feel about that? Considering…well…”

“Considering that my mother broke up both her engagement and another woman’s marriage?” Sansa half-shrugs and to her shock he laughs. “Well, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about it. I’m lucky, I think. Aegon and Rhaenys and even Floris and the twins don’t talk about it, I doubt they care.” He sighs, and they paused under the shade of a willow weeping to the ground. “I care, though. Our family sits on eggshells because of what my parents did and I’m afraid I’m going to crush them all.”

“Why do you fear that?” Sansa gestures for him to sit on a bench; the comb can wait for now.

“I’ve always been the odd one out too. I heard what they call me, the Shadow Prince. How I’m always in Aegon’s shadow, how I’m always casting a shadow on the throne, how I must be some evil shadowy creature wanting to kill my brother and sister for glory.” Aemon looks at her and there’s genuine terror in his eyes. “Do I really look so evil?”

“No.” And Sansa firmly shakes her head and stomps down on that line of thought. “People here are foolish and make up rumors about good people. If anyone says such slander again, tell me and I’ll set them straight with Floris.”

“…the night Rhaenys was taken by that evil bastard, I was sick. I had redspots, and I was forced into bed for an entire fortnight until they passed.” Aemon bows his head into his hands, and Sansa’s heart aches to see such abject unhappiness. “I wasn’t there. I could only just watch everything happen after the fact. Father and Mother were so terrified trying to find her while also fighting off the Greyjoy Rebellion, and the Princess Elia and her husband were furious that Rhaenys had been taken right from under our noses. And Aegon…”

Sansa hesitates, then rests her hand on his shoulder. She dares to guess, “Did he blame you?”

“There were two men who held down him and Floris, and Greyjoy to take Rhaenys. Aegon sat down next to me while I was sleeping. He leaned in and whispered that if I had been there, they could’ve had a chance to escape. And that even if we hadn’t, then at least we could be united in our pain, instead of me once again benefitting from his.” Aemon’s voice cracks, ever so slightly. “Gods, he hated me, Sansa. He hated me and I fear he hates me still.”

“I’m so sorry.” Sansa could cry. She tries to imagine Arya being stolen away with Robb locked in a closet with Bran and Rickon, and she sick in bed. Even if Arya and Mother too had been stolen, Robb never would’ve said such an awful thing to her. How could Aegon say that to Aemon?

How could all of this happen? So much pain twisted up in one family—Aemon inhales and Sansa freezes because she’s hugged him in an impulse. Too close! Much too close, too familiar! But then he turns and hugs her back, and she can feel the tension release in his back. She wonders when the last time he was hugged, if anyone in the royal family hugs each other. Rhaenys seems entirely touch-deprived and Aegon attaches himself to Margaery constantly and Daenerys always looks at Sansa with such vivid longing whenever she hugs Allyria. What a bizarre, sad family.

She rests her chin on his shoulder. He is warm against her and she takes comfort in that, hope he feels comfort in her own warmth. “It was a terrible thing he said. But I’ve seen the way he talks to you, about you, the way he looks at you—Aegon loves you. You were both young and angry and upset, and he must apologize or I’ll have Marg twist his ear off…but he loves you. I know it.”

“Thank you.” Aemon pulls back and gives her a smile. They are a rare sight, as rare as Rhaenys’s red eyes and direwolves south of the wall. Sansa smiles back at him. Then Aemon startles. “Wait, isn’t that your comb?”

“My comb!” And right beneath their feet, half hidden by plump camellias under the bench, is Sansa’s comb. Aemon carefully sets it into her hair, and the feel of his hands in her hair, brushing against her arms when they fall…Sansa blushes, and he does too.

* * *

She never loses her comb again, but she and Aemon wander through the gardens nearly every evening after. It’s as easy to talk to him as talking to her girl friends or to Robb, and sometimes even easier because he understands. He knows what it is to be the odd one, the not-quite perfect child, the keeper of secrets. He protects Aegon and she protects Rhaenys, and when they watch Rhaenys spar with Brienne they watch for her happiness. How quickly the princess has become so precious to her, but Sansa doesn’t mind. To be part of a whole, to be accepted and wanted…she was never unwanted in Winterfell, but it is so different here, and wonderful.

She watches for his happiness too. But as spring blooms and the air grows warmer with the longer days, she sees how unhappy he is. When she tells Robb, “Prince Aemon seems to be melancholy today, try and beat him on the training grounds,” it becomes less and less effective every time. The other girls are kinder to the boys now but there’s still the slightest of gaps between them, save for Floris who is determined to crack Monford’s shell. So Sansa talks to all of them. She tells Monford to take them sailing; Patrek to spin tales of his adventures at Riverrun with Uncle Edmure; Quentyn to smuggle in Dornish strongwine; Joffrey to shut his fat mouth; and the newcomer Ysilla’s brother Robar to stick close. She even tells Aegon, “I fear your brother still feels insecure about his place with you and Rhaenys since her arrival.”

Aegon’s indigo eyes flash with sadness and Sansa feels vindication that Aegon loves his brother. But there is still a shadow over Aemon, the shadow he lives in. And week after week, moon turning through moon, she sees the shadow become him. His voice is harsher, his face colder, and he stares at Rhaenys like she’s a puzzle he can’t figure out, at Aegon like he’s the problem he can’t solve.

“I can feel him looking at me,” Rhaenys admits as they practice sewing. “It’s not an unfriendly feeling, but very intense? I asked him if anything was troubling him but he brushed me off.” Rhaenys frowns at her embroidery. “It’s not like I can help him. It’s been what, a year since I’ve come back? And I’ve gained but a thimble of what I should know. I don’t think it will ever return, or my memories of before this unhappiness.”

Sansa reaches out and hugs her with one arm looped around her petite shoulders. “It’ll be alright.” She prays it will, she prays to the Crone for wisdom every day alongside her prayers for her family. She even asks Arya for advice. Arya says to both talk with Aemon about the North to remind him there’s an entire family of Starks looking out for him, to keep Aemon away nasty courtiers who might try and use him for their own nefarious plots.

Sansa agrees and talks with Aemon about the heated walls of Winterfell, the wolfswood where it’s rumored that direwolves still roam, of the glittering summer snows beneath a pale grey sky that rivals the sun in its brightness. Aemon drinks it all in with his hungry eyes, and Sansa can hardly meet his gaze some of the time. What does he think of when she tells him of the North? Does he want her to take him there? She gladly would, all of them, especially to confront Father about the past. Maybe Aemon has his own past to confront there. “Sometimes I worry about my purpose here,” he admits to her one day. “Aegon will marry Margaery next year, or so my mother says. They’ll have children, and hopefully one day a good man will marry Rhaenys and give her children. Then there’s me, the legitimized _bastard.”_

Sansa flinches from the venom in his voice. “Whatever happened before your birth has passed. You are Aemon Targaryen, Prince of Westeros. You don’t have to prove yourself to anyone.”

“But what if I do?” He huffs and she leans against his shoulder. “I want to be more than the spare’s spare, the Shadow Prince—I want to make all of Westeros proud of me. I want to make my mother so proud that she forgets everything awful court has said about us.” He bites his lip in thought, then nods to himself. “I’ll become a knight. I’ll be such a good knight that Father will give me Dark Sister, or Blackfyre, and I’ll use it to protect our family. No one will ever hurt Rhaenys again, or Aegon, or Margaery and Floris, or our parents.”

“I know you will. And when he knights you as Ser Aemon, I’ll be the first to cheer your name.”

“…thank you,” he says. Sansa tilts her head and he shakes his. “You—you talk to me like an actual person. Only Rhaenys and Floris do that anymore, and they’re sisters.”

“Are we not cousins?” She tries to keep her voice light. What’s happened between him and Aegon _now?_ She must interrogate Margaery. “And we Starklings ought to stick together, shouldn’t we?”

“Aye.” He catches a camellia before it hits the ground and tucks it behind her ear. “There we are, the Red Wolf of Winterfell.”

Sansa must keep herself from sighing and doing anything else embarrassing. He called her the Red Wolf of Winterfell, he gave her a flower! And how handsome he looked with the sunlight in his dark hair, in his grey eyes, across his strong jaw and cheekbones…oh, she knows nothing can ever come of it, as he deserves a princess. But she can dream. Her head floats in the clouds as she heads towards Lyanna’s chambers. She’s not expecting her today, but she wants to tell her that Rhaenys is doing better with the dance lessons and the cooks serving Yunkai’i baclava at dinner. She’s so dreamy that she doesn’t notice Floris’s hands wrapped around her wrists until Floris yanks her.

“Floris? What—” Floris drags her down a hall with surprising strength and shoves her into an empty chamber.

She then whirls around on her and demands in a hiss, “How dare you be a spy!”

“What?!”

“You’re a spy for Queen Lyanna! Don’t deny it!” Sansa denies it—how could she be a spy for anyone?!—and Floris stamps her foot. “I’ve been watching you. Mama said to keep an eye out on the Starks because they work in packs. And I didn’t want to believe her because you’re my friend! But every time you and your precious auntie would have your tea talks about my Rhaenys, about my big sister, another rumor crops up and batters her reputation! I wonder who keeps feeding the rat her knowledge then?!”

Sansa’s mouth opens in horror. Her face burns and her throat burns and she feels she’ll throw up all over Floris’s pretty white and orange dress. Instead she swallows, and chokes out, “I d-didn’t mean to. She said she would help.”

Lyanna lied.

Lyanna _lied_ to her!

How could Lyanna lie to her about something so essential about this?! The things Sansa would share with her thinking it would help Rhaenys, only to make things worse—Sansa hides her face and wills herself not to cry. But her eyes burn anyway and her shoulders shake.

She is the worst friend in all of Westeros, in all the world. How could she have done this?!

Floris is silent. Sansa feels her small hands on hers, and Floris brings her head up. “She’s a liar, Sansa. She always lies. Didn’t your father warn you about her?”

“He s-said to trust family.”

And Floris looks at her with so much pity that Sansa wants to fling herself out a window. “I wish you could. But not here.” Floris gives her a handkerchief and Sansa sniffles, entirely miserable and hating herself. “We can fix this. Just tell me everything you’ve told her. And when she asks for another tea time, you come to me first. And then Mama and I will figure out what’s safe to say.”

“I’m so sorry. Please believe me, I wouldn’t have gone to her if I had known.”

“I know. That’s why I’m so angry.” Floris sighs and they sit on the floor for a while.

Sansa tells her everything, writes it down when they are back in their rooms. And she must tell Rhaenys. She will never forgive herself to know she’s betrayed her friend after Rhaenys has done nothing to deserve it! She bows as deep as she can hold herself, she doesn’t dare ask for forgiveness, she just tells Rhaenys everything she’s done. “I told her whenever you were sad or hurt. I told her why I thought you were upset, and ways I thought could fix things. But she used that information against you and I am so, so sorry. It’s unforgivable.”

Rhaenys is not angry like Floris was. She’s just sad, sadder than Sansa has ever seen her. “I forgive you, Sansa.” Sansa tries to protest but Rhaenys shakes her head. “She thinks I’m a monster. She thinks I’m evil, because I was the Butcher and because I was wild before I left and because…because whatever reasons. And you trusted her. I forgive you, because I trusted her too.”

Sansa wipes her eyes. “But you’re not evil. You’re good, and she’s made up such awful lies about you because I helped her!”

“I wonder if other people think that.” Rhaenys’s eyes look far away, out the window and past the horizon towards Essos. They say all of Essos will burn to ash with the new Doom. What horrors did Rhaenys see there? Her voice is soft, so soft Sansa can hardly hear her. “I will never not be the Butcher. I am the Butcher and the Butcher is me. Melly sees me as a hero, and Lyanna sees me as a monster, and you see me as a friend. But everyone else? Am I just a monster? Is that all I’ll ever be? Why do I bother?”

“No.” Sansa holds her hand and squeezes it as hard as she dares. “No, you’re not a monster, even being the Butcher. You saved so many lives, you avenged so many lives—you are a better woman than all the lords and ladies here put together. And you have family and friends who love you, you should trust their love in you.”

“I do trust that. I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t, I betrayed you—”

“And you apologized to me the moment you found out. Do you know how rare it is for someone to apologize to me?” Rhaenys laughs and there’s tears in her dark red eyes. The sight makes Sansa’s own eyes well up. “I may not have many memories back to me, but I can hardly remember a moment where I’ve been apologized to. Only used.”

“Then I’ll apologize again for all of them. I’m sorry, Rhaenys.” Sansa forces herself to stand up straighter. “I’ll be smarter now, I promise. I’ll keep your secrets safe.”

Rhaenys smiles a sad little smile; she looks just like Daenerys. “I’ll keep you to that promise.”

* * *

“It’s a nightmare. I’ve known Aegon since I was eight, and back then he and Aemon would fight sometimes, but all brothers do, my own do. But when Rhaenys was taken—Aegon once told Aemon he wished he had been taken instead, did you know that? And Aemon said that Aegon was just bitter Rhaenys took the fall for him because he was as spoiled and useless as ever and couldn’t save her even if he had tried. That was four years ago, and it hasn’t gotten any better. Even after I threatened to have their parents get involved and even after Floris cried to hear them. Gods, the way they talk to each other sometimes, you’d think they were sworn enemies. It upsets me and Aegon always apologizes after and they’re fine for a few more days, but then Aegon makes an ill-thought jest about their looks or Aemon stares too long at Rhaenys, and then they start fighting again. Honestly, it’s wearing my nerves to the quick, and I don’t know how to get them to stop.”

Margaery’s hands fist in the bolt of linen just moments before she was inspecting. But now with the truth venting from her trembling lips she can’t stop twisting the linen, and Sansa can’t stop wringing her own hands. Daenerys sighs, low and long. “How long have you kept this to yourself, Marg? It must be a heavy burden to see the people you love treat each other this way.”

“It’s awful.” Margaery wipes at her eyes. “I have to hide it with my stupid little jokes and diversions so that the vultures at court don’t smell the blood. And Grandmother and Father keep wanting me to spy on Aegon and convince him to favor House Tyrell and the Reach. I can’t do that, he’s my betrothed! I’m going to marry him, I love him! I can’t—gods, I can’t do that to him. And I can’t just watch him destroy what love he has for his brother.”

Floris looks as if she’ll start weeping. “I’m so sorry Marg, I know it’s bad. I know, I—I wish Mama and Papa would just take us all to Oldtown and let us figure out everything. But instead I’m here, and they don’t really like the king or queen so I have to be between them since I’m Aeg and Aemon’s sister, and sometimes I wish I didn’t have to be the one between them doing all these plots…I get tired sometimes from all the spying and the lying.” Sansa sees how small she really is; she’s only just turned thirteen and having to be the perfect court lady stuck between the Martell-Hightowers and the Targaryen-Starks, Sansa would faint if she were her. She collects Floris into a hug and Floris sniffles.

Ysilla hugs her knees to her chest. “Father wants me to spy here too. He hates the Targaryens and whatever I mention in my letters that’s just a tiny bit negative about court, he raises hell to the king. With the Harry and the Arryns shamed the Royces are super influential now, and I’m afraid Father is going to do something that messes up the balance in the Vale. It’s bad there right now, it could just go up like a tinderbox…”

“I lie to my mother every day. I’m convincing her to marry me to Quentyn.” Myrcella gives Margaery her handkerchief and her emerald eyes are downcast. “I like him, I truly do. He is a good friend and I’m sure he’ll be a fine husband. But I don’t think I’ll ever love him in the way you love Aegon, Marg. But I have to marry him because Mother wants me to Aemon…or Loreon.”

“Loreon’s just a baby!”

“She has it in her head that since she and Uncle Jaime were twins, I ought to marry his son. And if not that, then the prince that Mother was denied in her youth. I’m so tired of being used by my own mother just because she’s unhappy, it’s unfair!”

Allyria glances at Sansa before staring down at her lap. “I…I found out who my father is.” Everyone turns to her. It’s common knowledge that Lady Ashara Dayne had a daughter during the Rebellion. And when they asked about Allyria’s father, Ashara only said that he was dead and could only give Allyria ash and bone as a birthright. Rhaegar had Allyria legitimized as Dayne and no one thought much of it as many people had died during the war. Ashara died when Sansa was ten from a cancer in her stomach. Sansa remembers how Father was quiet for a fortnight after the announcement of her death reached the North, how Mother was on edge for a full moon. Allyria licks her lips and explains, “Mama wrote a letter explaining it and gave it to my uncle Alaric in case she never got better from her sickness and she didn’t so, umm, he gave it to me because I’m fifteen now and I guess that means I’m old enough…” Allyria shrugs. “The man is married with children now and I’m afraid to tell him about me because it might ruin everyone’s happiness.”

Sansa hugs Allyria and even Margaery murmurs words of comfort. Brienne hugs Allyria too and Margaery, as she gives some of the best hugs out of all of them. “Disappointing our parents is never easy. My father is currently wooing the widow Lady Penrose and I pray every day they’ll marry and have a son or even another daughter because I’m no good as an heir. They still call me Brienne the Beauty behind my back, and think I’m too stupid to understand them. If it weren’t for you all and for Rhaenys, I don’t think I would’ve lasted a day here.”

Margaery gives her a teary smile and snuggles into her side. “I’m so glad you all came. When it was just me here, sometimes Floris would come but usually it was just me and Aemon and Aegon and…gods, the Targaryens are…”

“Depressing?” Sansa flinches and looks at Daenerys who looks at them all with one of her infamous half-smiles. What burdens does she carry on her marble shoulders?

Ysilla’s lips twitch into a brief smirk. “Depressing is a word, yes. Do you think the princes’ household has all these worries too?”

“We are women. The moment we were born, we were given special burdens because of our gender. To be dutiful, obedient, loyal, compromising. Always a daughter and sister and mother, but never just ourselves. Not even princesses get to be ourselves, not since the day Jaehaerys chose Baelon over Rhaenys and doomed us to the Dance.” Daenerys closes her eyes and inhales deeply. “My mother does not have long on this world. But with the time she does have, she’s raised me to be gracious, to be poised, to be calm and comforting. And to not show emotion, as that is the enemy. People use our emotions against us, they manipulate them and label them as hysteria. She wished for me to never make the mistakes that past Targaryens have, and their passions were their downfalls. I cannot make those same mistakes, even when sometimes I feel rather empty inside.” Daenerys smiles and it’s heart wrenching. “Sometimes I feel the day Rhaenys was taken from us, that was the day our family finally imploded and what we see now is just a mummer’s show. But I must be strong, for them and for Mother.”

Sansa blinks back tears. All this time, Daenerys has been suffering too. “Dany,” Margaery whispers, “we’re here for you. You’re strong enough, we promise.”

“Not strong enough to keep Aegon and Aemon from building the foundations of another Dance. Not with how their mothers despise each other and how my eldest brother won’t lift a finger to make the right decisions. Viserys is in Dorne, Mother is on Dragonstone, and we are what’s left for here.” Daenerys sighs and looks away. “We’ll just have to be do better than them.”

They are silent for a long time after that. Rhaenys knocks on the door, returned from her session with her maester, and Sansa wonders if she’s heard anything. She doesn’t seem to notice anything’s wrong, still in her post-session melancholy as usual. But Sansa notices how much extra care she takes with them afterward, how she asks for their opinions on every little matter and assures them of how much she loves them.

* * *

Sansa unfurls the message. “Meet me by our bench when the moon is highest in the sky.” She clutches it to her chest and wills her heart to slow. What could he possibly want at such a late hour? She imagines him in the moonlight, all the shadows casting over his face until he looks at her and his gray eyes are lit like stars…she sinks into a chair. “Sansa?” Rhaenys pokes her head around a corner; her face is flushed and her lips looks rather swollen, she must’ve taken a blow to the mouth during her spar with Brienne. Rhaenys did teach them all the important of head-butts, she must’ve been surprised to have one thrown back at her.

She blinks up at Rhaenys, before covering her face with her hands. “Aemon asked me to meet him tonight in the gardens. What do I do?”

“You wear your silver dress, it pairs so nicely with your hair.” Rhaenys grins. “And I’ll be your escort and chaperone of course, to protect my lady’s honor against brigands and blackguards.”

“Such a wonderful knight you are, did Brienne teach you?” Rhaenys is the one to blush now and Sansa laughs. She laughs, and sighs, and wrings her hands. What does Aemon want, what will he say?

What will she do to see him there in the moonlight?

Ysilla raises her eyebrows when Sansa dresses in her silver gown with the Tully blue damask pattern on her bodice and the Stark white lace on her sleeves and skirts. It is certainly something not to wear for bed, especially with how it supports Sansa’s bust. Margaery smirks and Myrcella winks and Allyria stage whispers as she and Rhaenys leave, “Knock him dead!”

Sansa might die first, considering how quick and hard her heart hammers in her throat. Rhaenys holds her hand, swings it just like Arya does on the chance occasions when they hold hands. If, in a world where Sansa could possibly—Rhaenys is Aemon’s sister, they would be sisters just as she is with Arya and Allyria. Sansa would love that if it ever came to be. At the threshold of the camellia gardens, Rhaenys squeezes her hand and says, “Everything will be fine.”

And there he is. In the moonlight, Aemon hunches over on their bench with his face in shadow. Sansa steps forward into the light and the reflection of her dress’s cloth-of-silver illuminates the silver threading in his own doublet. He stands, and his eyes are as bright as the stars, as the moon overhead. “Sansa,” he breathes, and all of Sansa is alight.

He steps forward until they are arm’s length apart. Then he sinks onto his knee. “Forgive me, my lady, for the late hour. But I couldn’t bear to admit this to you during the day—now I can pretend it is just a nightmare when I wake tomorrow.”

“What troubles you, Aemon?” She sees the way she shivers to hear his name on her lips; she wonders if he sees the way she shivers to have his name on her lips.

“I have nothing to offer you. I am a second prince, third in line, with no lands and no other titles. All I have is my sword which my mother gave me. So I beg you to let me down gently. My heart can’t bear your rejection even though it’s the only way—”

She tilts his chin up. His dark hair falls into his face but she can see the desperation there in the lines of his grimace, in where his brows meet. She trails her hand up his cheek and rubs her thumb between his eyes to smooth out the tension there. Her hand hovers, and he leans up to kiss her palm. Sansa stifles a gasp, as his lips are so warm against her skin. Then he takes her hand in his and kisses her knuckles, four little kisses to each one. “Please,” he murmurs, “be gentle.”

“We are young.” Sansa cups his face, feels his heart racing beneath the seam of his jaw. “There is still time for you to earn a title and a castle somewhere…and even if you didn’t…I don’t care.”

“Sansa?”

She smiles and kneels down with him. She trusts him. She respects him. And she tells him, “I love you.”

His breath catches in his throat. His hands—so large compared to hers, calloused and burning hot—move up the edges of her face to curl in her hair. Her comb glints in the moonlight, she can see it reflect in his grey eyes. The comb, and her red hair, and all of her. He’s close enough to kiss. He whispers against her lips, “I love you too. I’ll be good enough for you one day, I swear.”

Sansa smiles. He tilts up her face and glances at her lips before drawing back. She pulls him close by his doublet and nods. He stands up and clutches her to his chest, and she’s surrounded by warm darkness until all the color is his eyes. And there, beneath the moon and the stars and the last of the camellias, he kisses her. And all is right in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s funny, I don’t ship Jon/Sansa in canon (tbh I don’t really ship them with anybody because they’re so young and damaged and need a break from all their suffering). But in AU? It’s kinda my crack alongside Jon/Ygritte. And I finally got to write it, yay!
> 
> I hope y’all appreciated that slow sweetness, because that’s the last we’re getting in the story! Next chapter the plot is ON!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hath Been No Fault in Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25701709) by [TheDarknessOfMereBeing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarknessOfMereBeing/pseuds/TheDarknessOfMereBeing)




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